


The Desire to Kneel

by BawdyBean



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Play, Canon Dialogue, Dom/sub Play, Edgeplay, Eventual Smut, Humiliation, Impact Play, M/M, Marking, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Short Chapters, Sounding, Subdrop, Submission, Subspace, Tags May Change, Trust Kink, Undressing, Wax Play, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 14:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19813870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BawdyBean/pseuds/BawdyBean
Summary: “Did the gentleman not understand? Did I not emphasize adequately that one must bow to the emperor?” Mererid chastised Geralt like a school boy, as if Geralt weren’t twice his age.“Relax. Nothing happened,” Geralt laughed. Unbidden his mind conjured an image of Emhyr kneeling on the floor at his feet and he wondered automatically what the Emperor of Nilfgaard wore for smallclothes. Oh Gods that was going to haunt his dreams.CH. 11 Summary:“Relax, lean back against me and let me take care of you,” Geralt’s kept his voice low, but there was a soft lilting quality underneath it. He felt as much as heard Emhyr let out a shuddering breath and melt into him. Tipping his head back against Geralt, Emhyr closed his eyes, and seemed to focus on his breathing. It became more regular, matching up to his heart beat.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starspren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starspren/gifts).



> This whole work is going to be [Starspren's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starspren/pseuds/Starspren) fault and I do not apologize. They commented on [A Reasonable Witcher](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18071651/chapters/42713387) that this was their fave ship and I doubted my ability to write Emhyr. But I had an idea and it's been stuck in my head ever since, so I have challenged myself to give Starspren some Geralt/Emhyr love.
> 
> It will start out cannon and take a hard left.

The royal palace at Vizima was dimly lit and the damp seeped through the stone walls despite how well cut each individual slab was. The long shadows thrown by tall candelabras shared their secrets with no one save Emhyr’s spies. The plush carpets running the halls looked muddy in the low light. Golden fields of grain, brick roadways, and the face of the nation had replaced the nobles and leaders of the north on the walls. The palace was a feat of northern architecture at one time but now it was only a symbol of how the north was crumbling under Emhyr’s fist.

All of the Nilfgaardian soldiers had died on the road, and yet Geralt had followed Yennifer here anyway. Out of some duty to see through whatever was so important that she hadn’t deigned to inform him of her whereabouts while he searched desperately for her. Chasing rumors and false leads all over Redania and half of Velen. He’d been sunk in a hot bath, which was admittedly pretty nice after the fast ride through the night with the Wild Hunt chilling the air at their feet, soaped and scrubbed dutifully by a handful of servants. Again not that he minded, until he was rudely pulled from the bath much to soon. Mererid directed to Geralt to sit and be shaved. Which Geralt allowed because it had been awhile and he wasn’t one to turn down a free shave.

A calculating general in black interrogated Geralt about the whereabouts of his men. The Nilfgaardians, those who were cut down by the Wild Hunt, had all been under his command. General Morvran Voorhis took Geralt’s jokes about being another barber in stride with a calm demeanor that Geralt was sure belied the the icy ruthlessness beneath the surface. He wasn’t angry about his men, they were devoted to Nilfgaard and were happy to give their lives in its service, Morvran merely sought to understand that it was necessary. Dying in battle was honorable enough. So Geralt explained it as such. Best to leave out the parts about Aen Elle traveling between worlds disguised as wraiths to enslave whole races. Better yet to leave out the bit where he’d ridden with them for a time, trading himself for Yennefer’s safety, before being rescued by Ciri. Morvran didn’t look like he’d take kindly to the idea that his trained men had been taken down by what he probably viewed as no more than a northerner fairy tale told to scare women and children from wandering at night. Few believed the truth without seeing it with their own eyes, and many who saw for themselves did not live to tell the tale.

Once Geralt was dressed in a suitably tight, stuffy black doublet and trousers that hugged his legs far too much for his comfort Mererid felt the need to instruct Geralt on the finer points of bowing. He also suffered a lecture about the proper way to address His Majesty, doubtful anyone in this palace outside of  _ His Majesty _ and Geralt were aware of the long off again on again history they shared. It seemed that no matter how much Geralt tried to stay out of Emhyr’s path, eventually he ended up drawn back into the vortex that swirled around the man. Geralt did not bother to tell Mererid that there was no point in this spectacle as Mererid corrected his form with exasperation, Geralt bowed for no man and he wasn’t starting now, but he also wasn’t in the mood to argue with fools. And he was surrounded by them.

Geralt was not in a hot bath, not in a room with Yen, not being told what was going on, and not pleased about any of those things. All he wanted to do was get this meeting with Emhyr over with so he could remedy at least three of those problems. Making no effort to look civilized in his pretty new clothes as he followed Mererid down the hall and round the way Geralt studied all the sycophants as he went. There was a stunning amount of people around to tell _His Majesty_ what he wanted to hear, to bring him news, to go spread his orders, and to generally make him feel good about himself. Geralt could never do that. He would always tell Emhyr the truth, whether it was the right truth or not.

When they entered Emhyr’s office even more leeches and lackeys were crowded inside, waiting for Emhyr’s approval or orders. Mererid was rattling on in Nilgaardian Emhyr’s many titles and names as all the eyes in the room were on Geralt.

“Bow,” Mererid instructed to Geralt in common as if he were too stupid to understand.

Geralt stood his ground firmly, “Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Aen Visse Mawredd dymuno…”Mererid bowed perfectly turning to leave. Geralt bit his tongue. If Emhyr hadn’t wished to have him here then he definitely would not have come. The luster had long since worn off the honor of showing up for kings an queens.

“Gach duine esse va vort eithrio an vatt'ghern,” Emhyr declared in stiff clipped Nilgaardian. Quickly all the hangers on filed out of the office after Mererid, nobles sniffling at Geralt as they passed.

“So many months at Foltest’s court… and yet you still haven’t mastered the basics of etiquette,” Emhyr said with a frustrated sigh.

“You know what they say- can’t teach an old wolf new tricks?” Geralt leaned back against the wall crossing his arms and looking over Emhyr. The emperor was tired, worn, and the stress was showing at the seams if only your knew him well enough to know where to look. “I take it you didn’t summon me to reminisce about the good old days, so…”

“Silence,” Emhyr barked. “My daughter Cirilla… she’s returned, and she’s in danger. The Wild Hunt pursues her. You will find her and bring her to me.”

Geralt did nothing for a moment absorbing the silence around them and digesting the words the emperor had spoken. Could he be mistaken? Surely not. As much as Geralt wanted to argue that Ciri was his daughter as much as she was Emhyr’s he didn’t want to spend a week in the dungeons and Emhyr was clearly exhausted and stressed out. This was not something Emhyr would get wrong. And yet…

“Are you sure?” Geralt needed to gauge the accuracy of Emhyr’s information. What had convinced him so? “Ciri…left. Went far far away.” Because she saved me and now they hunt her, Geralt left out.

“Do you believe that I’d drag you here in the middle of a war to discuss a rumor?” Emhyr allowed his eyebrows to rise almost imperceptibly, questioning Geralt’s ability to reason.

“I think anyone can be wrong, even an emperor,” Geralt shot back.

“I had forgotten how insolent you can be. I haven’t the time to convince you, nor the desire, in fact. Yennefer will do that- this audience is finished,” Geralt could tell he had gotten under Emhyr’s skin. Emhyr didn’t tolerate being doubted, Emhyr tolerated nothing less than perfect obedience, and the occasional truth. Though depending on the truth it was liable to get you thrown out of the palace on your ass. Geralt turned to let himself out.

“Oh and witcher, someday you might learn to humble yourself enough to bow before other men. It is an honor to be able to be humble oneself and place your burdens at another’s feet. An honor not all men have the luxury of,” there was no anger in Emhyr’s voice and Geralt turned back around to see him elbow rested on his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mé ver'langhen aen glúine,” Emhyr said under his breath in sharp Nilfgaardian. Despite how softly it was said Geralt’s keen senses picked it up load and clear, did Emhyr seriously not realize Geralt’s love for reading every book he came across, language tomes included? 

One of Geralt’s eyebrows quirked up and a devilish grin spread across his face, “Emhyr you can kneel for me anytime, as long as no one sees you.”

“Mererid! Get him out of here now!” Emhyr’s coffee brown eyes glowered at Geralt, boring into him as if he could make him disappear by shear force of will. 

“Come with me. I will take you to the sorceress,” Mererid had arrived and was rushing him out of the room. Whether for his own good or to stave off some angry outburst from Emhyr that might boil over onto the staff Geralt wasn’t sure. 

“Did the gentleman not understand? Did I not emphasize adequately that one must bow to the emperor?” Mererid chastised Geralt like a school boy, as if Geralt weren’t twice his age.

“Relax. Nothing happened,” Geralt laughed. Unbidden his mind conjured an image of Emhyr kneeling on the floor at his feet and he wondered automatically what the Emperor of Nilfgaard wore for smallclothes. Oh Gods that was going to haunt his dreams.

Hell it had been worth it though, just for the look on Emhyr’s face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were a great many things which Emhyr was loathe to admit to himself about the situation at hand really. That he needed the witcher’s assistance; That Cirilla, his own daughter, trusted and loved the witcher as a father more than she did Emhyr, her own flesh and blood, and with good reason given to her by his own hand; That his history with the witcher encouraged too much familiarity with the man; That the witcher that once knew Emhyr as Duny a simple Urcheon from Erlenwald would always struggle to treat him with the regard he deserved as emperor; That Nilfgaard was ensconced in yet another war with the North, it’s third under his command, and Emhyr was not wholly certain of their ability to achieve victory where they had twice before been driven back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this is not going to be a super long burn. Just that this kind of kinky co-pair requires at least a bit of set up plot. Smuttiness soon I promise. You know me, you know it's coming.

The level of disrespect the witcher displayed towards Emhyr had been infuriating. He was the Imperator of the Nilfgaardian Empire, High Priest of the Great Sun, The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of His Enemies- a force to be reckoned with. Not some simpering Northern lord to be taunted! Emhyr had truly forgotten the level of insolence the witcher was capable of. Having the witcher thrown in the dungeon to think about his arrogance for a few weeks briefly crossed Emhyr’s mind, but Cirilla was being hunted down. She trusted the witcher, and not many had the knowledge and skills needed to track her down before The Hunt succeeded in catching her.

There were a great many things which Emhyr was loathe to admit to himself about the situation at hand really. That he needed the witcher’s assistance; That Cirilla, his own daughter, trusted and loved the witcher as a father more than she did Emhyr, her own flesh and blood, and with good reason given to her by his own hand; That his history with the witcher encouraged too much familiarity with the man; That the witcher that once knew Emhyr as Duny a simple Urcheon from Erlenwald would always struggle to treat him with the regard he deserved as emperor; That Nilfgaard was ensconced in yet another war with the North, it’s third under his command, and Emhyr was not wholly certain of their ability to achieve victory where they had twice before been driven back.

Emhyr liked to think that he carried the weight of his nation with dignity, selflessly giving up his own desires and pleasures when required so that the great Empire of Nilfgaard might march on in glory. There was truth in his carelessly whispered words though. In trying to impart upon the witcher that simply bowing before him as emperor was not demeaning to one’s self, Emhyr had allowed the witcher to get too close to the truth. That sometimes Emhyr wished he could walk away from it all, that Nilfgaard would march on without him, not forever mind you, only for a night perhaps. To have his arms empty of the nation’s burdens for a short while and be at peace with himself, to have a hot bath without being watched by the Impera, or interrupted to deal with a crisis. It could never be though and it was a foolish wish. One that the witcher had saw fit to throw in his face in the most lurid way possible.

Mererid returned after seeing the witcher away, and to Emhyr’s disapproval he looked concerned about something. Probably anxious that Emhyr would blame the witcher’s lack of couth on him. If it had been some peasant and Mererid had simply failed to educate them of the proper procedure then no doubt he would have earned discipline. However Mererid could not, should not, be held accountable for the witcher’s personal choice to be ill behaved.

“If Your Majesty is inclined, I have brought you tea for the evening,” Mererid spoke loudly and clearly as if nothing had happened although Emhyr could sense his nervousness.

“Yes, please,” Emhyr looked up from his desk and nodded at Mererid briefly before returning to his papers. More death warrants to sign, which in turn meant more reports to read to ensure the right man was put to the blade. A golden pot slipped into his view and gracefully took purchase on the corner of his desk, far from his reports. A small golden saucer holding a gleaming teacup followed it down. The sound of the tea being poured into the cup was soothing and soft. The smell of lavender tea with a hint of lemon wafted over to Emhyr and he almost smiled. 

“Does Your Majesty require anything else at the moment?” Mererid inquired.

“No this will do,” Emhyr replied without looking up from his work.

As Mererid’s footsteps were retreating from his office Emhyr called after him, “Thank you. I know you tried with the witcher. He is incorrigible. There was nothing more you could have done.”

“Thank you for the forgiveness Your Majesty,” Mererid’s voice remained unchanged yet Emhyr saw his shoulders drop in distinct relief at the words. The Impera Brigade guard who’d had resumed his post at the inside of Emhyr’s office door stood impassively, black winged helmet pointed at the window behind Emhyr, as Mererid exited.

Sipping the hot tea Emhyr appreciated the little bite of citrus- Nilfgaardian Lemon- only a smidgen. Never enough to slur his mind in any way, but combined with the smooth lavender it did always help him relax. Enough that he might sleep some tonight. Mererid was a good man and loyal. Committed to knowing every little like and dislike that made Emhyr tick. It pleased Emhyr to have Mererid in his service, that Mererid knew these things about him, and brought him his tea just as he liked it. 

Emhyr continued his work, studiously reviewing the words of commanders, generals, brigadiers, and spies. Weighing the evidence presented, turning over the pieces of the game in his mind. Quill to ink pot, ink pot to paper, men became ghosts. Missives detailing where evidence was lacking and his pawns were failing at the assignments given to them were scrolled out in fine hand, sealed in golden wax with a blazing sun. The candles on Emhyr’s desk had burned low and what little tea remained had long since gone cold when he sighed wiping his quill to set it down for the night.

The Impera remained even now, stoic and motionless, as Emhyr strode out of his own office. Turning perfectly with grace the Impera followed him at a respectful distance when Emhyr moved down the hall towards his personal chambers. Emhyr didn’t bother to greet the pair of Impera with their long pole-arms crossed in front the doors to his private rooms, their weapons automatically parting before him like the sea. The doors clicked gently closed behind him, and yet there were more Impera here. One stood at the arched doorway that led to his bathing chamber, and two more stood staring blankly forward from the end of his grand bed, he knew even though he couldn’t yet see them. 

Emhyr entered the arched doorway opposite the guarded one that led to his baths, pulling the rope that hung from the ceiling as he did. Minutes later a servant appeared and Emhyr held his arms out at his sides allowing the man to strip him of the trappings of his realm. First his chain of office was lifted delicately and placed on a mound of black velvet molded specifically for it on one of the many dressers. Next his belt and the long black quilted gambeson that he wore over his tunic and trousers, the servants hands working quickly over the buckles, careful not to touch Emhyr more than strictly necessary. A stool was brought over from near the armoire and Emhyr took a seat, the motions rote after so many years, the man swiftly worked off Emhyr’s boots. Hands barely graced Emhyr’s skin as his red and black silk brocade tunic was lifted from him and replaced with a smooth linen night shirt. Standing, Emhyr loosened his trousers under his night shirt pushing them to the floor. Stepping out of them he laid on the bed, the servant pulled the cover up over his chest before gathering his trousers from the floor and leaving him alone. Alone but for his Impera and his thoughts.

Sleep came hard and fitful to Emhyr that night. Short gasps of relief from his running mind. In the sputtering moments when he woke and couldn’t force his psyche to let him go Emhyr wondered what the other occupants of the palace were doing. Had the witcher gone back to the rooms prepared for him? Had he stayed in Yennefer’s instead? It was said that they loved one another and yet Yennefer seemed to hold the witcher at a distance, even now hesitant to follow Emhyr’s orders to bring him here. Did the sorceress bend to the witcher’s will, would he touch her, have her kneel before him and absolve her of the guilt of having followed Emhyr’s demands. A shudder wracked his body at the thought and he suppressed the urge to think more on it.

What of his Cirilla? She lived still, Emhyr was certain of his sources. But for how long and where? The witcher would have to find her and quickly. He must understand that resources were not an impediment, only time. Emhyr pressed his fingers against his eyes and breathed deeply. It would be dawn all too soon. Sleep, take him now, it would be a long day. It always was. And sleep did take him.

Emhyr’s eyes blinked slowly open, something was wrong but he couldn’t place his finger on it yet. Casting his eyes around the room the foot of his bed caught his attention immediately. There were no Impera. Stock still and working on pure adrenaline Emhyr tried to keep his breaths steady so as not to alert anyone hidden in the room that he had awoken. He surveyed what he could see of the room without turning his head, the balcony looked secure, the doorway was empty of Impera. Then he cought a glint to the right out of the corner of his eye and Emhyr choked on his breath. Sitting on the stool that he used for dressing to the right of his bed was the witcher. One boot casually resting on his knee, forearm resting on his leg as he sat staring at Emhyr, face placid.

“Good morning, Emhyr,” the witcher grinned at him.

Emhyr gasped awake sitting upright in bed, struggling to get air into his lungs, to make his body obey his commands and breathe properly.

“Your Majesty, are you alright? Do you need something?” One of the nameless Impera at the foot of his bed had turned to address Emhyr cautiously. Oh bless The Sun they were there, they were real.

“…Fine… I’m fine… call my servant,” Emhyr sputtered out in a less than dignified manner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of Emhyr's head? This is my first crack at writing him so feel free to be brutally honest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt hadn’t given Emhyr a second thought during the time he had been haunted by the search for Ciri and his fears of failing there; During his painful attempt at reconciliation with Yen and the empty lack of feeling left by releasing the Djinn’s hold. Seeing Emhyr now though stirred more than a few thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are sooo close. Last chapter before the smut I promise.

The next time Geralt entered the palace in Vizima the weather was still holding onto a tinge of warmth as it entered fall. Inside fires were lit in every hearth, and the yellow light made the rooms glow as they walked through the halls. Ciri hovered close by his side as Geralt led her into the courtyard to meet with her father. Sitting on one of the stone benches surrounded by an appropriate number of toadying nobles was Emhyr var Emreis. Legs sprawled wide open and hugged on the outsides by his calf length padded gambeson which split up the center to his waist, feet flat on the ground in a pair of perfectly supple black leather boots. Leaning forward with his hands on his knees Emhyr looked straight ahead at them, the tail of his black and silver belt dangled tantalizingly between his legs. The closest thing Geralt had ever seen to a pleased expression crossed Emhyr’s face for a brief moment.

Geralt hadn’t given Emhyr a second thought during the time he had been haunted by the search for Ciri and his fears of failing there; During his painful attempt at reconciliation with Yen and the empty lack of feeling left by releasing the Djinn’s hold. Seeing Emhyr now though stirred more than a few thoughts. His Imperial Majesty was holding quite the commanding pose for someone who had professed a desire to kneel before another Geralt mused to himself. Gods what would it be like to see that man let go, to watch him yield to his basest desires? Geralt felt a twitch in his groin and blew out a soft breath shoving the thought away. When he started paying attention Mererid was introducing him to Emhyr as if Emhyr didn’t know who he was, and then paused to introduce Ciri.

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Queen of Cintra, Princess of Brugge and Duchess of Sodden, heiress to Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, and suzeraine of Attre and Abb Yarra,” Emhyr announced in Mererid’s place. The ferocity in his eyes as the shocked nobles began to kneel unmistakable, “Get used to it. Before long every soul from Nilfgaard to the Dragon Mountains will kneel before you. I did not expect you to keep your word, witcher.” Red leaves were bleeding slowly off the dogwoods in the courtyard from the slight shift in the wind.

“I always keep my word.”

“As do I.”

Geralt had expected this, tried to head it off before even, honestly did the man not understand how much he cared for Ciri? He would have sought her out to keep her safe without any offer of reward, this wasn’t about gold, Ciri wasn’t a witcher’s contract. You couldn’t buy and sell a daughter, their love, or their safety. Emhyr, it seemed, still had a lot to learn there.

A delicate hand squeezed Geralt’s when he turned down the gold. Of course Emhyr couldn’t allow his own pride to be tarnished either so Geralt would leave with a new horse. Fine. Emhyr couldn’t retrieve Ciri himself, he could only use his vast wealth to make it happen, but he also couldn’t owe a witcher a favor in his own mind, so this was the only reasonable compromise available to him now that Geralt wouldn’t accept his gold. Geralt would take it, a horse was a horse. A witcher worth his blade oil never turned down a decent horse, and Nilfgaardian stallions were second only to Zerrikanian stock.

The black banners trimmed in gold with silver suns emblazoned on them waved faintly in the breeze, and Geralt’s attention was drawn back to Emhyr as the emperor requested to speak to Ciri alone. Knowing that Ciri was perfectly capable now of handling anything Emhyr might toss her way, Geralt followed Mererid back into the throne room. Repairs were underway on the floor in front of the throne itself, or rather, redecoration of the stonework to suit Nilfgaard’s color scheme. As Geralt stood waiting for Ciri, General Voorhis approached and chatted with him about tactics, about Ciri, about tactics involving Ciri.

“Can’t be sure Ciri’ll agree to any of that,” Geralt warned him, and as if on cue Ciri stormed back in to inform Geralt they were in fact leaving- right this minute. Never one to argue with an angry woman with magic at her fingertips, Geralt followed.

More of the space in Geralt’s head was devoted to Emhyr’s legs after that day in the palace courtyard. The unruly side of him wanted to see how far he could push Emhyr. Did the emperor truly want to submit to someone? Could he? Geralt wondered which one of them was more petulant. If only he had the time. If only his world weren’t on the verge of ending, and Ciri wasn’t in grave danger still. Skellige still waited and the odds did not seem in their favor though none among them were willing to say that out loud.

The desire to see if he could bend Emhyr to his will was only heightened when Geralt had to sneak onto the Imperial Fleet to retrieve Fringilla. Having crossbows aimed at him did not alarm Geralt in the least, but it did make him feel a tad more insolent when Emhyr turned to face him.

“Witcher. What a pleasant surprise,” Emhyr acknowledged him.

“You know, I have a name besides ‘Witcher’ _Emperor_ ,” Geralt threw extra emphasis on Emhyr’s role. Jobs and titles could cut both ways and if Emhyr wanted to make him feel less human he could do the same.

“That you do,” Emhyr replied not missing a beat.

Once Fringilla was secured, or unsecured actually, from her dimeritium shackles and the Lodge’s safety was assured Geralt approached Emhyr again.

“My offer still stands,” Geralt informed Emhyr in a low voice where the guards couldn’t hear, “You can give me what you want anytime as long as no one sees you do it.” Geralt flashed a grin as he turned to leave, savoring the way Emhyr’s face was purpled with a mix of rage and longing.

~~~~~

The strain of Cirilla saying yes was almost too much. The intellect was there, the fire was there, and her compassion far outstripped his own Emhyr was sure. But Cirilla needed to be molded, guided, shown that she was more than capable as an Empress not just as a witcher, and the responsibility of being that shepherding force for her just might break him. He was not meant to be a father, he was not good at it, this Emhyr was sure of. He had nearly broken her in the worst imaginable way before and only the witcher had stopped him. He didn’t deserve her trust in these matters. Yet he was the only one who could show her how to rule the empire, even though she would exceed his ability at it because she cared where he could not.

Sleep would not come. The tea Mererid brought him did not help. Nothing helped. Emhyr wandered aimlessly past the Impera into his office in the early hours of the morning and sat at his desk. The candles drooped under the weight of their pooled wax. Quill to ink pot, ink pot to paper, Emhyr scrolled out a request. Come visit Cirilla, she could use your guidance. Unwritten was the last part he thought: so could I.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Witcher,_ ” Emhyr’s tone held a warning. He had been honest he didn’t desire that honesty to be thrown in his face.
> 
> “ _Emperor._ ”
> 
> Asshole. Emhyr swore in his head and clenched his jaw.
> 
> ~~ Geralt comes to stay in the City of Golden Towers at the Imperial Palace ~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I swear we will get to the smut eventually! It just hasn't happened _quite_ yet. Shortly though. Honest, I swear. IN the meantime, snarky Geralt, frustrated Emhyr, **blissfully unaware** Ciri (because who wants to think of their Dads getting it on?

The roast duck with cherries that Marlene had prepared was exploding with flavor in Geralt’s mouth. Greasy and fruity all at once, tamed down by the bulgar wheat served with it. Geralt stuffed another bite into his mouth, savoring the flavor. Staring at the painting proudly displayed on the wall in the main room, Geralt wondered to himself how he had ever let himself get conned into posing for that. He continued eating as he picked apart the painting of him naked reclining against a griffin. At least it was a good likeness, even if the man had glossed over all his scars. Geralt sat back in his chair, hands resting on his slightly overfull stomach, he was going to have to start restraining himself with Marlene’s cooking or else take on some real contracts. Someone approached from the rear of the house and he easily recognized Barnabis’ footsteps.

“Sir, I have a letter for your review,” Barnabis greeted him.

“B.B.,” Geralt sighed, “I thought I told you to just respond to any gala invites for me by declining and saying I was too busy with contracts? And stop calling me Sir.”

“This one is,” B.B. coughed, “Different, Si-,” he cut himself off before holding out a sealed message tube for Geralt to see.

The tube itself was wood stained black with walnut ink, and the end caps were sterling silver. A Nilfgaardian sun was carefully detailed on each cap, eighteen rays shining from its center to remind the world of its radiance and heat. B.B. politely walked away as Geralt unscrewed one cap, upending the tub and letting a single rolled paper fall out into his lap. It was sealed with golden wax, imprinted with Emhyr’s personal seal. Geralt fought the urge to grit his teeth. Gods be Damned if Emhyr thought he could just send a letter and demand Geralt appear. 

Running his finger under the wax to break it open he started to read. The script was flowing and precise, exactly as one would expect from a man of Emhyr’s station. Geralt read it with about as much attention as he felt Emhyr paid a man of his own station too, until he got to the bottom and realized two things. The letter was signed simply Emhyr; and that Emhyr had not actually demanded anything. All he had done was request that Geralt visit Ciri. Politely. Bringing his gaze back up to the top he read the letter in its entirety again, looking for the plot hidden inside. Emhyr did not ask for things politely. Unable to parse out the devil in the details, Geralt resigned himself to a long hot horse ride to the city of Nilfgaard, better known as The City of Golden Towers. If nothing else it would be nice to see how Ciri was faring with her choice.

~~~~~

Geralt hadn’t thought it was possible but the sun was even more blinding in Nilfgaard than it had been in Toussaint. He’d left the vineyard in the quite capable hands of B.B. and Marlene. They would see that everything ran on schedule, the workers were paid and fed, and any wrinkles got ironed flat while he was gone. Roach ambled towards the city, which seemed to stretch on forever, her hooves clopping roughly on the brick paved roads. Once inside the main gates Geralt passed a market where he saw silver platters, pewter pitchers, cast iron pots, and all other manner of kitchen wares being sold from an open air stall. The next stall was selling what appeared to be high quality floor rugs, and good blankets. Another sold inks of varying colors, next to quills made from exotic feathers. He contemplated stopping to look for a bite to eat but then decided the emperor had invited him, the emperor could damn well feed him too. Probably from the same kind of bird that had donated its feathers to those exotic quills.

Faithful and demur as ever, Roach continued on the path that Geralt set her to all the way up to the Imperial Palace gates. They rose tall and golden, so ostentatious Geralt imagined even Roach was offended by the way her ears twitched. Hushed whispers were passed back and forth between the guards at the palace gate, furtive glances thrown his way.

“Look I was invited,” Geralt reached behind his back to fetch the scroll from his saddlebag.

A guard stepped up and coughed, “You are the witcher Geralt?”

Pausing in his search Geralt eyed the guard cautiously, “Yeah, I am.”

“Pardon our curiosity, it was inappropriate. We do not see witchers in the southern lands often,” the guard said by way of explanation, or Geralt almost thought incredulously apology? “You are welcome by order if His Imperial Majesty, The Emperor, Emhyr var Emreis. Please follow me.”

“Alright,” Geralt replied careful to keep the wary curiosity out of his voice.

Roach was seen to the royal stable, given her own stable boy to see to her grooming and needs. Geralt was shown to a spacious suite of rooms that consisted of a sitting room, bathing room with a heated pool large enough for four men, and a large bedroom with a huge canopy bed. Full of lavish furniture, plush dark red and black accents greeted Geralt everywhere he looked, with trays of fruits, nuts, and dried meats set on an side table in each room. Large windows looked to be hidden behind heavy black velvet curtains that blocked out all the sun in the bedroom, Geralt could sleep all day in that darkness if he wanted. After a cursory tour of his rooms his guide left him alone in his guest chambers to his thoughts, which were quickly interrupted by Mererid.

“I am sure the gentleman would like to get to the heart of the matter of why he was invited to the palace,” Mererid said in his typical annoying formal manner. Yet it was true, Geralt did in fact want to know what scheme he was being manipulated into by Emhyr.

“Sure would,” Geralt replied casually.

“I know the gentleman despises cleanliness but if a bath and shave could be our first order, then I could see to it that you are taken directly to Cirilla immediately afterward.”

“Never claimed to dislike a hot bath, or even a shave Mererid. I hate being yanked out of one unceremoniously,” Geralt registered Mererid trying to control his flinch at the use of his name, “And I hate clothes that bunch in all the wrong places and offer no protection in the right ones.” Mererid’s lips parted to say something but he apparently thought better of it and closed them again silently. Geralt continued, “So I am really here just to see Ciri, cheer her up?”

“Just so,” Mererid’s answer was so quick and calm Geralt was tempted to see truth in it.

“Hmm, well tell you what… Leave me for half an hour to soak in that huge pool. I can wash myself I swear,” Geralt made a quick sign of the sun over his chest, “And then when you come back, I’ll even let you shave me before we go see Ciri. Deal?” Geralt flashed Mererid his most charming smile, which was far from disarming.

“As the gentleman wishes, I shall return in half an hour.”

Turning towards the bathing chamber Geralt couldn’t tell if Mererid was annoyed that he had misjudged Geralt’s love of hot baths or relieved to be removed from his company. It didn’t matter much to him though because there was a perpetually hot bath the size of a small swimming hole waiting for him, and privacy to go with it. Neither were things he got in large quantities regularly. Corvo Bianco’s tub was nothing compared to this.

As soon as he was in the bathing room Geralt started stripping his armor off, letting it drop to the floor piece by piece. Gloves, chest armor, linen shirt, followed by leather boots, then pants, and finally his braies. He dipped a toe in the steaming water and sighed. Sliding in and submerging for as long as he could before bursting out and looking for soap. Scrubbed clean he remained soaking until he heard Mererid’s measured footsteps return. As promised he allowed himself to be shaved; and as promised directly after that Mererid led him to the library where Ciri was studying Nilfgaardian with a passive unpleasant frown stretched over her face. Geralt silently stalked up behind her, covering her eyes.

“Guess who?” He whispered next to her ear causing her to shriek with happiness in the silent library.

Mererid stifled a frown and walked away.

Ciri showed him the palace grounds, babbling on and on about how she couldn’t believe Emhyr had thought to invite him to cheer her up. Geralt beamed. They visited the gardens, the stables, and finally she dragged him to dinner, which turned out to be the first time he saw Emhyr. Ciri thanked Emhyr profusely, but not quite as much as she thanked Geralt for coming. To Geralt’s sheer astonishment Emhyr thanked him, for coming as well. After that dinner was a mostly quiet affair. Geralt didn’t quite know what to say to Emhyr anyway. Mostly he chatted occasionally with Ciri and Emhyr looked on fondly.

The week that followed went very similarly. Except that one way the witcher found to relax Cirilla was to add an hour of sword practice in every evening. Emhyr kept his distance. He felt significantly more at ease with the witcher there to assist in guiding their daughter. He was still feeling tense, overburdened, bent beyond his capability, but he was holding there. Emhyr did not want the witcher to feel that he had been invited to the palace under false pretenses. More than anything he wanted the witcher to feel welcome, to know that Emhyr appreciated what he was doing for Cirilla, appreciated the small weight he was helping to lift for the emperor. Accordingly he had instructed all the palace guards and servants to treat the witcher with the utmost respect and deference. He would be allowed to keep his swords, potions and bombs, even in the presence of Cirilla or himself; he would be allowed to were his armor, and it would be treated as if he was wearing the uniform of a soldier.

Emhyr should have known that it would not last though. The witcher was too intelligent, and eventually after enough keen observations he would see Emhyr’s weakness. That he’d been invited not just for Cirilla’s comfort but for Emhyr’s sanity too. Reality came crashing down on Emhyr much faster than he anticipated however. After only eight days there was a knock at his office door.

“Enter,” Emhyr called out, not looking up from the stacks of trade agreements he was pouring over.

The witcher walked right in without a care for the Impera standing guard at the door. Falling gracefully into a chair across from Emhyr’s desk he rested a booted foot against the edge. Emhyr glared at it. Looking up he caught the black feathers of one of the Impera’s winged helmets shift in response, ready, but ultimately they remained where they were stationed.

“Witcher,” Emhyr gritted out, trying to control the emotions that roiled within him at the blatant defiance, such a display of dominance.

“I have a name,  _ Emperor _ _,_ ” his retort was quick and solid. “Ciri seems to be doing well.”

Glad to move on from the topic of names quickly Emhyr seized on the change, “She is going to be a very capable Empress. I am teaching her everything I there is to know about Nilfgaard, and she is a fast learner.”

“Always was,” Geralt smiled fondly.

“She makes me proud. She is a compassionate, and well rounded individual. Always seeking a better solution,” Emhyr cast his eyes away, “I fear I have not myself to thank for that.”

The witcher merely stared at Emhyr one eyebrow raised until he regained eye contact, “You think?”

“ _ Witcher _ , ” Emhyr’s tone held a warning. He had been honest he didn’t desire that honesty to be thrown in his face.

“ _ Emperor _ . ”

Asshole. Emhyr swore in his head and clenched his jaw.

“Did you need something?” Emhyr inquired, he was tiring of this conversation very quickly. “I have gone out of my way to ensure you are treated well here.”

“A fact that hasn’t escaped my notice,” Geralt pointed out casually. “Ciri is doing well. I came to see how  _ you _ were doing.”

“I am fine.”

“Really? Seem a bit uptight to me. When was the last time you took an evening off?” The witcher talked about it as if it were that simple. Just set things aside for a moment and take an evening to oneself. Ridiculous. “You always work after dinner?”

“What does it matter to you?” Emhyr was exhausted all of a sudden. He wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep. Except sleep would not come that easy and he knew it.

The witcher chuckled, “Oh to tell you that I think you’d have to send your little Impera away.”

“That is impossible!” Emhyr barked, “I cannot be unguarded.”

“Oh nothing’s impossible Emhyr,” and Emhyr blinked at the use of his first name again. “You just have to trust me enough. Honestly a witcher is a better guard than a couple of Impera anyway.” Geralt slid his boot off of Emhyr’s desk smiling at Emhyr predatorily as he stood to leave. “You let me know, when you trust me enough, and I’ll let you know what it means to me.”

The seed had been planted and Geralt could only hope that Emhyr loved a challenge as much as he did. That he would rise to the bait sooner rather than later. The emperor was wound tighter than a shipyard rope and Geralt wanted to release that tension. Watch it fray and split until it could hold no more and finally spun wildly around itself coming to a standstill. Emhyr had invited him to help Ciri lift her spirits yes, but the real game had been to ease his own load. That was Emhyr’s manipulation. Geralt was one step ahead now though, the one in control, the one leading Emhyr to his eventual ruin. And he loved it.


	5. Ch 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By dinner on the fourth day, Geralt was certain that Emhyr’s will had not been tested enough. His desire to get the emperor to bend for him outweighed his tolerance for the impasse they were stuck at and Geralt decided it was time to up the ante.   
> ~Geralt starts testing Emhyr's limits of patience and trust~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just going to come straight out and admit this thing has grown a life of its own. These two are a handful and they will get to it when they do, in the meantime enjoy some trust kink and power play! Nilfgaardian translations in the A/N at the end.

A few more days passed uneventfully with Geralt keeping Ciri company. The palace library was an absolute treasure trove of knowledge. Much of it could bore a person to death, which Ciri was constantly attesting to. However Geralt found that if you took the time to look in the farthest reaches, at the dustiest tomes- there were gems to be found. He was reading a book on the botany of rare southern plants that was quite possibly older than he was, lounging in a wing-backed chair across from his daughter while she studied the history of Nilfgaard. They chatted off and on idly, Geralt remarking that he was intrigued by the City of Towers with its many markets, vendors, and sectors, busy day and night; Ciri commenting that she wished she had gotten to see more of it before becoming heir to the throne and having a permanent retinue of guards.

Dinner with the emperor was still a mainstay of Geralt’s evenings, shortly after sword practice with Ciri they would all gather in Emhyr’s private dining room to eat a meal which never ceased to amaze Geralt’s senses. Even Marlene would have been impressed. Somehow Emhyr managed not to allow it to be awkward, despite Geralt’s outright proposition of him and him having not yet accepted it. He remained as much of a royal pain in Geralt’s ass as ever, frankly, leaving Ciri none the wiser. Emhyr quizzed Ciri in Nilfgaardian, fully aware that Geralt could understand, asking her about her days and pointedly reminding her that she must be careful not to get injured sparring with Geralt. They exchanged the occasional glare, and even more infrequent pleasantries. Meanwhile, Geralt and Ciri talked about everything from trolls, to the Skellige Isles, and how much Hjalmar had changed. Afterward Ciri and Geralt would retire to their rooms, and Emhyr would return to his office to continue working.

By dinner on the fourth day, Geralt was certain that Emhyr’s will had not been tested enough. His desire to get the emperor to bend for him outweighed his tolerance for the impasse they were stuck at and Geralt decided it was time to up the ante. After dinner instead of retiring to his room he went to the library and selected a tome on ancient curses of the Black Seidhe. 

Getting into the emperor’s office was as simple as knocking and waiting for Emhyr to call out for him to enter. Striding in like he had nowhere else to be, because really he didn’t, Geralt took up a seat on one of the plush couches off to the side and cracked open his chosen book. Setting down a leather pack by his feet. There was a fleeting glimpse of shock on Emhyr’s face, before it was quickly replaced by stern disapproval.

“Can I assist you in some way, witcher?” There was a mocking tone to the emperor’s voice that made Geralt smile internally. He’d made a dent in that perfectly crafted facade finally, now he just had to wait for it to crack.

“No, I’m comfortable thank you,” Geralt was careful to keep his voice even, tone pleasant, face placid.

Emhyr’s reply was a terse, “Fine.”

Emhyr returned to his work, obstinately ignoring Geralt with all his might. Reviewing new laws, making amendments as he saw fit, signing away lives and gold. The scratching of his quill on parchment was oddly quite soothing, Geralt thought. The office was so deathly quiet aside from the breath and heartbeats of the emperor and his guards that the minuscule rattle of the quill on the glass bottle of ink and  _ scritch scritch scritch _ as Emhyr’s hand guided it across the papers created a music of its own kind. Geralt read his book peacefully listening to the sounds of Emhyr’s quiet fury.

Some hours later there was a knock at the office door. At Emhyr's invitation, Mererid entered with a gilded pot of tea and a matching cup and saucer. Lavender tea spiked with a touch of Nilfgaardian Lemon, Geralt could smell it all the way across the room. He wasn’t about to begrudge the emperor a nightcap, there was hardly enough booze in the tea to give a gnat a buzz. As Mererid turned to leave he noticed Geralt lounging on the couch with his book. A strangled cough stuck in the chamberlain’s throat.

“Would the gentleman care to read somewhere more…” Mererid was clearly struggling to come up with an appropriate word to Geralt’s silent amusement, “relaxing?”

“Oh no, this couch is quite soft. Thank you,” Geralt replied, maintaining that calm even tone as he looked Mererid in the eye briefly before returning to his book. Mererid glanced around, at the Impera standing stoically facing forward as if they were alone in the room, then to the emperor.

“If His Majesty would not wish some privacy?” Mererid’s voice pleaded with Emhyr.

“The witcher may stay if he wants to Mererid,” Emhyr’s words were contracted with frustration.

At first Emhyr was livid, then slowly that changed into bafflement, as the minutes ticked by and he had nothing to listen to in the silence of his office but the grating  _ schliff …  schliff _ _…_ of the witcher turning the pages in his book. The witcher didn’t want anything from him, and yet there he sat, sprawled out lewdly on Emhyr’s side couch, in Emhyr’s office, after the day was done and they had no reason to be around each other. It was positively maddening. And it did not matter in the least. There was work still to be done, an Empire to run if Cirilla was to have anything worth inheriting, and that witcher could drape himself on the couch all night if it suited him, it would not stop Emhyr from continuing his work.  _ Schliff .  _

Studiously Emhyr read through his drafts, signed his orders, studied his reports, all the while trying his best to ignore the witcher in full. Sometime not long before Mererid brought in his nightly tea the witcher fell away into the background of his mind. Emhyr wasn’t exactly sure if he had managed to push him there of his own accord or if the steady presence had simply faded because he knew the witcher was not a threat and therefore the company was reassuring. Willfully he chose not to look to deeply at it. His chamberlain on the other hand was obviously consternated at the arrangement. Mererid had stumbled over his words in his attempt to have the witcher removed from Emhyr’s office and Emhyr had finally had to explain that he was allowing the witcher to stay. He swore Mererid looked as though he had just blasphemed against himself as High Priest of the Great Sun when he said it too.

The silence in his office afterward was just as it had been before the interruption. The  _schliff… schliff…schliffing _ of the pages irritating his mind again. A short hour later Emhyr stood up behind the massive walnut desk stretching his legs and straightened his quill and ink on top. The witcher closed his book motioning for Emhyr to lead the way, as if it wasn’t common knowledge that the emperor always walked in front. Emhyr sighed heavily, stepping out of his office and into the hallway, followed closely by the witcher, then the Impera. The office doors clicked closed behind the group.

“Codlaéd gaedeen  _ Ker'zaer _ _,_ ” Geralt whispered softly enough for only Emhyr to hear as he strode past where the emperor was turning off to his rooms.

“Bloede kusse,” Emhyr swore back at him as the gold trimmed black double doors to his rooms opened before him. Jaw clenching Emhyr watched the witcher’s retreating back as he continued down the hall unfazed towards his own quarters. 

_Insolent, absolutely insolent! _ Emhyr’s thoughts rattled off the inside of his head as his body servant stripped him and prepared him for bed.  T _he witcher had intruded on his personal space all evening! _ The servant deftly stripped off Emhyr’s gambeson and belt.  _ Meddled in his limited private time. _ Emhyr’s pants dropped to the floor and he sat on the stool.  _And he had the audacity to tell Emhyr to get a good night’s sleep? _ The sleeping tunic was dropped over his head and Emhyr stood, dropping his own braies to the floor and stalking angrily to the bed. Emhyr is hesitant to admit even to himself that once he finally fall asleep he slept straight through the night until the first gray lights of morning bled through his windows.

Breakfast, meetings, lunch, and court all followed the usual procession the next day. Dinner arrived a little to quickly for Emhyr’s taste but still he was able to remain unaffected by the witcher in front of Cirilla. Conversing in Nilfgaardian as had become their habit; it was good practice for her, he inquired about her day. She’d gone riding with the witcher and her guards through the city instead of sword practice, he chided her gently to be careful and avoid danger. She laughed, a delightful sound, and declared that she could not be any safer than she was with the witcher. The dark look of bitterness he received from the witcher was satisfying. He could continue to poke at this sore spot of Cirilla’s safety much longer if he needed to. Preening at how naturally her accent was fading away with the short harsh clipped words Emhyr carried on, questioning her a little on history before letting the witcher take over the conversation in common.

They talked as always about stories of her youth, and it made Emhyr wistful that he had missed it. His heart sank that a sorcerer and this witcher had raised his child, and done a better job of it that he would have been capable of. Both of them smiled as they recalled Cirilla’s fire and determination to beat something called ‘The Gauntlet’.

When the dishes were cleared away and they had eaten a sweet apple tart for desert, Emhyr retreated to his office as always, Impera not far behind him. Barely had the seat of his pants hit the chair behind his massive desk, when there was a knock at his door. He motioned for the Impera to open the doors and in walked the witcher, book in hand. Emhyr stopped crouched halfway to sitting in his chair, mouth slightly agape, watching as the witcher silently took up a relaxing spot on the side couch cracking the book open. One knee pulled up, the other foot flat on the floor next to his leather bag, manliness obscenely on display. Two could play this petulant game, Emhyr decided, sitting down to his work without a word.  _ Scritch… scritch... schliff .  _

Mererid came and went with Emhyr’s nightly tea. Although Mererid did look concerned, not a word was said this time about the witcher stretched out on the couch. The Impera ignored him as well, it was their job to ignore everyone around them and guard the emperor and they were excellent at it.  _ Schliff … schliff… schliff…  _ it was actually a bit settling to hear after a while Emhyr realized.  _ I will never tell the witcher that though _ _,_ he thought sipping his tea.

Near the end of the night Emhyr broke the silence, “Did you need something, witcher?”

“No, Emperor.”

“Then I think it’s time we headed to our rooms for the night,” Emhyr tried to keep his tone dull, but it may have wavered just a small bit. He stood and straightened his desk, leaving his office. He did not check to see if the witcher and Impera were behind him. They were.

At his doors he heard the witcher whisper again, “Codlaéd gaedeen Ker'zaer.” 

Instead of rising to the taunt he ignored it.

As soon as he was in his bed he fell asleep. He woke realizing he had followed the witcher’s order to sleep well. And it disturbed him. Deeply.

The third evening Emhyr struggled to ignore the witcher as he read. He simply could not understand the witcher’s motives. Why? He repeated in his head again and again as he failed to grasp the concept of the plan in front of him for review again. Why was the witcher merely lounging every evening in his office. He didn’t need anything from Emhyr. It was affecting Emhyr in unexpected ways. He had been more relaxed while working yesterday evening; he had slept better last night than he had in _years._ It made no sense. What did the witcher want from him?

The lever dropped, clicking into place and securing the answer in Emhyr’s head. The witcher did not need anything from him. He wanted. He had even said what he wanted out loud. Directly to Emhyr days ago. He wanted Emhyr to send the Impera away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nilfgaardian Translations:**  
>  Codlaéd gaedeen Ker'zaer- Sleep well emperor  
> Bloede kusse- Bloody cunt or Damned cunt (Nilfgaardian equivalent of F*cking cunt)


	6. Ch 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The predatory smile was replaced by a completely flat affect as he dropped the leather bag on top of Emhyr’s desk looking Emhyr straight in the eye.
> 
> “Strip. We're going for a walk. Your new clothes are in here.”
> 
> ~Geralt pushes Emhyr's trust further~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its getting warmer in Emhyr's office! I can't thank those who've been following along for this unintentional eventual smut enough. Enjoy Starspren.  
> As always no beta on this one so all mistakes are my own damn fault.

The couch along the side wall of Emhyr’s office was exceptionally well built and cushioned. Geralt had to admit it was enjoyable to unwind himself along it, loosen up and let the words slide by his eyes. The emperor was always visible in his peripheral vision, working tediously away at the stacks of burdens on his desk. The first day he had seemed mildly offended by Geralt’s presence; the second day he seemed resigned to it; by the third day Geralt was sure his plan was working. The cracks were reaching the surface. Emhyr would pick a scroll up to read it, set it down, rub his temples and then pick it back up starting at the top of the scroll again. There was noticeably less  _ scritch… scritch… scritching  _ coming from the direction of the antique desk. A sigh here. A huff of breath there.

Geralt fought with himself not to smile as he watched Emhyr struggle internally with what he knew Geralt wanted from him. He would almost have felt bad that Emhyr was not getting as much work done expect that the whole point of this was for Emhyr to let go, take a break from running the Empire, step away for a moment and let Geralt take control for him.  _ Schliff _ _,_ Geralt flipped the page of his book, relaxing further into the couch. Mererid came with the emperor’s tea and Geralt completely ignored him somewhat engrossed in his book and his emperor.

“Mererid,” Emhyr’s commanding voice broke Geralt’s concentration, “Tomorrow you will bring tea for two.”

Mererid’s adam’s apple bobbed roughly as he swallowed, “As Your Majesty wishes so it shall be.”

“Thank you,” Emhyr brooked no argument but he was not cruel to chamberlain despite the man’s obvious distaste for Geralt.

Nothing else about their night changed. Geralt followed Emhyr from his office when he was ready to go to bed. In the hall he told Emhyr to sleep well as always. Emhyr entered his private chambers without a word in reply. Geralt continued on to his own rooms and sunk himself into a steaming bath.

The next evening Mererid did indeed serve tea for two. A taller pot, silver and adorned with golden Nilfgaardian sun, every other ray rose gold. Two silver cups and saucers with gold rimmed edges accompanied it. All of it still smelled of Emhyr’s favorite barely spiked tea. As soon as Mererid had left Emhyr stood from his desk and spoke to the Impera.

“Essea Ker'zaer, het aen creasa aen gèillead me. Es vaer'tru aen vatt'ghern, ei twe glaeddyvan esse dìon me. Va vort y n'essI aedragh a me,” Emhyr spoke calm clear clipped Nilfgaardian, stern enough for the Impera to only pause a few seconds before following his orders.

Geralt raised one eyebrow over his book at Emhyr. Closing his book and lowering his legs to the floor Geralt rolled up to a sitting position on the couch. Leaving the book on the end table he stood and walked over toward Emhyr’s desk.

A pleased smile curled lightly on Geralt’s lips, “Visse gead'tocht gaedeen Ker'zaer.”

Emhyr’s eyes glared back the heat of the sun he represented. “Oh, fuck off! Witcher.” He spat, “You got what you wanted, sit down and have tea with me before it gets cold.”

Geralt laughed small and low, sitting down opposite Emhyr at his desk, “You know I have a name  _ Emperor _ . ”

“I am aware of it, yes.”

“Someday you might consider using it,” Geralt sighed, “And I would like to point out that you want this too. You are the one who said you wished you could kneel, have the ability to let someone else take your burdens for a while.”

Emhyr poured the tea, shifting a saucer over to Geralt, “Such a thing is not possible for me witcher.”

“A few days ago you said the same about this,” Geralt gestured between them, indicating the two of them alone in a room without guards. “Nothing is impossible, but you have to trust me.”

Emhyr opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything. He opened it again, “Well you are here aren’t you? The Impera are not. Does that not at least imply that I trust you will not murder me?” His words were assertive and sharp but the tone was softer than it had been before. “That is more than I can say about anyone on the Continent and Isles save my Impera.”

Geralt took a drink of his tea, it did have good flavor, Emhyr had good taste, “I had hoped for a bit more than that,” Geralt snorted. “I’ve saved your life, kept your secrets for decades. I need you to really trust me. I won’t hurt you, any more than you want me too that is.” Geralt let a predatory smiled slip onto his face as he sipped his tea and stared at Emhyr over the dainty silver cup.

Emhyr’s eyes went slightly wide and his nostrils flared at Geralt’s suggestion. The emperor’s heartbeat picked up rapidly in his chest. Scared, Geralt wondered briefly? Then he caught the salty overtone in the air, aroused. Good. Right where he wanted Emhyr. He stood and circled slowly around the desk, draining his tea. Pressing close behind Emhyr without actually touching him, Geralt leaned over him reaching around to place his cup back on the desk. 

He could feel the tension rising off Emhyr at the proximity, no one was allowed so close to the emperor, and having Geralt in his space made him nervous. Pulling his arm back Geralt held the closeness for a few moments.

“That’s what you want isn’t it? Me giving you a taste of pain, pushing you to your limit, when no one else will,” Geralt let his breath caress over Emhyr’s ear, touching him in a way his hands wouldn’t yet.

“Yes,” Emhyr’s answer was more air than words.

“Good,” Geralt’s reply was solid and reverberated in the quiet office. Standing so abruptly he startled Emhyr a bit he crossed the room to his leather bag by the couch. "You need a word that will make me stop this all, what do you want it to be? Something besides 'No, stop, don't' because I am sure you'll want to say that plenty," the flat even tone of Geralt's voice was meant to show Emhyr he was serious about pushing those limits.

"Sovereign. That will be my word," Emhyr's voice was gaining substance was still breathy.

The predatory smile was replaced by a completely flat affect as he dropped the leather bag on top of Emhyr’s desk looking Emhyr straight in the eye.

“Strip. We're going for a walk. Your new clothes are in here.”

The urge to argue rose up in his chest and thundered at Emhyr’s ears but seeing the witcher return to the couch and sprawl out, staring at him, turned the urge to ice in his veins. Was the witcher just going to sit there and watch? Emhyr sat motionless for a moment. He hadn’t undressed himself since… since… well, since he wasn’t Emhyr. But the witcher had known him then too. He stood slowly, heart racing, and mind not far behind. Unsure really why he was even doing what the witcher told him to do, other than that he needed to, Emhyr reached for the leather satchel.

“Step around the desk, I want to see you,” Geralt ordered.

Hands twitching at his sides, Emhyr came slowly around the front of the desk. Swallowing hard around the lump in his throat, his shaking hands lifted his chain of office above his head, setting it gingerly down on the desk next to him. Removing the massive rings that befit his station, Emhyr placed them near his quill. Eyes finding the witcher’s golden irises across the room Emhyr tried to keep a steady gaze on him as he loosened the ties on his shirtsleeves and fumbled with the catches on his gambeson. Too late Emhyr realized as he tried to pull his arm out of his gambeson, that he’d forgotten entirely to remove his belt. Tangled in his own clothing and completely flustered he worked at the knot of the belt one handed until it gave, falling to the floor with his dagger still attached. 

It was unnerving how the witcher had draped himself over the couch, amber cat eyes following Emhyr placidly as he struggled out of his clothing like an untrained child. Gambeson folded and laid on the desk over his chain of office Emhyr reached down for his belt, adding it to the pile. Next he untied the laces at the top of his black and red brocade tunic, lifting it and his white silk undershirt over his head at the same time, defiantly staring back at the witcher as he folded both. The witcher wasn’t looking Emhyr in the eyes though, he was staring at Emhyr’s pale olive chest bared before him. Emhyr continued, unlacing his boots, leaning heavily on the desk to pull them off, used to sitting down for the task. Feeling less self conscious as he went, he quickly unlaced his pants letting the trousers fall to floor and toeing out of them before placing them on the desk and reaching into the leather satchel to see what was inside.

“Braies too,” Geralt ordered, catching him off guard.

“Excuse me?” the question was soft but lined with incredulity as Emhyr turned his head to look back at the witcher.

“You heard me. I want to see. Unless I am asking too much, then say the word- we will stop and I will leave,” but there as no hint of trepidation in the witcher’s voice, he knew that Emhyr would not stop. “No one but an emperor would wear such beautiful black and red silk braies anyway.”

Emhyr could demand this stop now, he was not wholly without power here and he knew it, but Emhyr didn’t want the witcher to leave. He wanted the witcher to flay him open, leave him tender and pulsing like an exposed vein on a torturers table. Admittedly, being forced to strip himself was doing things for him he almost wished the witcher wasn’t about to see. Facing him again Emhyr carefully worked the knots on his braies loose, holding his breath, head tipping forward and eyes closing in shame when they finally fell to the ground exposing him to the witcher’s eyes. He knew his cock was standing proud away from his body, and he couldn’t bare to see the witcher stare at him like this.

“Turn around,” the witcher’s voice was rough and scrubbed over his skin forcing a blush from his face down his neck, creeping into his chest and upper back. Emhyr followed his order though. Turning to show the witcher his strong back, dotted in scars from his curse. No body servant would dare question where they came from, the witcher wouldn’t need to, he already knew.

“You have an elegant body,” Emhyr trembled at the words so close to him, his eyes darting open, he hadn’t heard the witcher move at all, yet he was standing right next to him eyeing his body with hunger. “Get dressed.”

Emhyr’s mind cried out in relief at the thought of clothing, any clothing, even if it wasn’t his own. A shield for the immense vulnerability he had just endured. The plain rough cotton braies, simple undershirt, and foot wraps went on quickly, giving him some semblance of dignity back, even if they were not much comfort compared to what he was used to. Plain brown leathers, and a padded brown leather gambeson that stopped short just below his waist completed the outfit. It was functional, armored enough to deflect a blow, flexible enough to allow him to move quickly; and it was uncultured, absolutely nothing about it proclaimed him as anything other than a commoner. The last item in the bag was a thin wooden party mask. Carved and molded into the shape of a wolf’s face complete with pointed ears, and snout. The witcher tied it’s leather strings behind Emhyr’s head, careful not to touch him.

“Follow me,” the witcher opened the door to Emhyr’s office to lead the way out and Emhyr almost balked again. He could not remember the last time he had  _ followed _ someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nilfgaardian Translations:**  
>  Essea Ker'zaer, het aen creasa aen gèillead me. Es vaer'tru aen vatt'ghern, ei twe glaeddyvan esse dìon me. Va vort y n'essI aedragh a me.  
> I am Emperor, it is your duty to obey me. I trust the witcher, his two swords will protect me. Go away and do not disturb me.
> 
> Visse gead'tocht gaedeen Ker'zaer.  
> You have done well, Emperor.


	7. Ch 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heat of Emhyr’s body close behind him reminded him to stay focused as he led them through one street after another. Down an alley, where Emhyr’s panic picked up slightly again. Coming out the other end there was a commotion of light and noise. Just as Geralt had planned the night market was in full swing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh just a witcher and an emperor going for a stroll, nothing kinky here *looks at the sky*...
> 
> Thanks to everyone who helped me settle out this walk in my head and double check for typos!

Geralt let his footsteps ring out in the palace halls, he was more than capable of padding quiet as a feather, but he wanted Emhyr to know he was leaving the palace with or without him. There was a long pause, rife with indecision, before the rushed shuffle of boots made an effort to catch up to his stride. Allowing himself a smirk because Emhyr could not see, a satisfied feeling settled in Geralt’s gut. He’d set Emhyr off-balance, helped draw him into his own body in a way the emperor probably hadn’t been present in years. Given Emhyr the shame of questioning his own desire. And then relieved it- all by giving the emperor some new clothes. It was a rush. Geralt concentrated on taking solid rhythmic breaths and leading them out of the palace.

The regular palace guards didn’t give Geralt and his charge a second look, having become so accustomed to his presence under. Being under strick orders from the emperor to make Geralt welcome didn’t hurt, giving him nearly free reign within the palace and without. Once outside the palace gates Geralt didn’t need to turn to look at Emhyr to judge the state of his discord. His frenetic heartbeat was thudding loudly in his chest, too fast, just shy of panic. Hurried breaths sputtered in and out of Emhyr’s lungs, never coming to their full potential. 

Geralt slowed his pace a fraction, allowing Emhyr to come up directly behind him. Listening intently, waiting for Emhyr’s trust to take hold of his fear. He kept a leisurely pace, watching all around for any signs of danger while keeping his ears keen on Emhyr’s heartbeat. After all he was literally guarding the Imperial Emperor of Nilfgaard, alone, in the city streets at night, even if his plan was that no one know that. He had taken Emhyr’s life in his hands and asked Emhyr to trust him. Geralt couldn’t misplace that trust, not even for a second.

The heat of Emhyr’s body close behind him reminded him to stay focused as he led them through one street after another. Down an alley, where Emhyr’s panic picked up slightly again. Coming out the other end there was a commotion of light and noise. Just as Geralt had planned the night market was in full swing. A Zerrikanian was juggling four torches on an enormous rug that had been laid out on the ground in the center of the square to serve as a stage. People mingled all about, merchants hawking their wares from booths and carts, vendors pushed handcarts loaded down with roasted meats and ale. Emhyr would see his people in all their glory, and he would be no one but another commoner among them. Around the stage smaller women mats were arranged for people to sit on and watch, further back still were upturned wooden barrels used to form tables at which one could stand to eat or drink.

“Come,” Geralt moved forward into the crowd, deftly weaving among the people toward the booth he wanted.

There was something here he wanted to buy for Emhyr. He’d seen it on the way in the first day he arrived in the City of Golden Towers. It drew his attention then for no particular reason, but now, he knew it was a reward Emhyr had earned for following him. Past vendors selling silks, linens, and cottons he led Emhyr slowly through the market. Allowing the emperor to talk in all the sights, sounds, and smells of his empire. Allowing him to be anonymous for once. Then Geralt stopped them in front of the merchant selling inks and quills.

“Little Wolf come here,” Geralt saw Emhyr stiffen slightly at the name, and grabbed him around the arm to bring him forward. Placing Emhyr in front of him with a hand on each of his arms Geralt leaned down to speak in his ear, “You have been so good. Choose any quill you like. You will not pay.”

The streets of Nilfgaard City at night were safe. City guardsmen on patrolled regularly, oil lamps lit all the main thoroughfares, violent crime was punished harshly- a good deterrent. Rationally, Emhyr knew, he was safer with the witcher than he was surrounded by Impera. Irrationally, he was petrified. Uncomfortably, the average quality armor chafed. Still it was better than standing naked and aroused.

If he hadn’t followed the witcher he surely would have been left behind like a dolt, dressed in peasant’s armor, sporting an inexplicable erection he did not want to dwell on. In his haste he hadn’t considered what the witcher had planned. Emhyr tried to keep pace and not lose sight of the twin swords glinting in the darkness in front of him, realizing all too late that they were leaving the palace gates. Was the man insane?! Emhyr couldn’t just walk out of the palace, unguarded, open and exposed! What if someone realized who he was? Emhyr was sure the witcher would do everything in his power to protect him but…

The dark armor he wore was hard for Emhyr to keep track of in the dark which only added to his panic. He wanted to reach out and grab hold of it so he wouldn’t lose the man. But then the witcher slowed, and Emhyr was able to stay closer, see him better. Slowly Emhyr’s panic ebbed away to exhilaration. The city was beautiful at night and he had never seen it this way. Surely the witcher would use his enhanced senses to keep Emhyr safe; surely he could enjoy this little moment of time among the plebeians. 

The alley ended in a burst of noise and streaks of light. Emhyr stared in awe for a moment at the gathering of people. Men, women, merchants, and entertainers. Streaks of light flew up in the air again, only to be caught by an exotic man on a large rug in the center of the square, before he sent them flying again. The torches he was juggling barely stayed in his hands a moment at a time.

The witcher was calling him. Asking him to following again and Emhyr did so heedlessly, without a thought for his own safety. The witcher had brought Emhyr here, he must know it was safe. He would see to it. Emhyr followed him through the throngs of citizens, careful to keep the swords in sight but trying to look around and see the world anew around him at the same time. He was slightly startled when they stopped. Even more so when the witcher called him Little Wolf and beckoned him forward. He was the emperor he deserved to be addressed-

The witcher’s hand circled firmly around his arm and pulled him forward. Emhyr’s thoughts stopped for a moment. His breath caught in his throat. No one dared touch him without permission. 

The words hot against his ear brought him back, “You have been so good. Choose any quill you like. You will not pay.”

Emhyr sucked in the breath that had been static in his throat. He remembered the wooden wolf mask he wore. His disguise. Little Wolf. He wasn’t the emperor. Not tonight. Not to Geralt.

Geralt whom he was trusting, who wanted to reward Emhyr for trusting him. Emhyr wanted to lean back and melt against him for a moment, but he stiffened his back resisting the urge. No. He was just the witcher, but still a gift was not to be declined. He looked over the quills some fancy, some plain, some something in between. There was a good variety of sizes as well. Crow quills for fine lines, goose for everyday writing, as well as more exotic peacock and others. Never one to take a gift lightly, Emhyr took his time sizing up his options before something in the back caught his eye. Not wanting to speak to the vendor and have his well known voice heard Emhyr turned to whisper to the witcher.

“In the back, the red medium quill.”

Geralt squeezed his arms gently, then stepped forward to purchase it, “We’ll have the red one, there in the back, and do you have red ink to go with it?”

“The parrot feather quill? An excellent choice. Rare and beautiful for the masked man,” the merchant grinned at Emhyr, who blushed ridiculously behind his mask, what was he a ten year old boy at court again? “Red ink… red…ink,” the merchant muttered to himself an he dug around under the counter of his booth, “ahh. Here we are! I’ll just wrap it up for you. That will be 65 florens sir.” 

Geralt had to step close into the booth to give the man his gold and the light from the torches must have caught his unnatural eyes because Emhyr saw the merchant visibly stiffen. He felt his blush fade. Not feeling so flirtatious now are you? Emhyr mused to himself.  _ a _ Emhyr smiled at the thought behind his mask. Yes, he was safe with the witcher.

Package secure in Emhyr’s hands Geralt led them back to the entertainment. Along the way he purchased a clay mug of hot spiced wine for his Little Wolf, carrying it to one of the upturned barrels and directing him to drink. The flame juggler had been replaced by a lithe woman tumbling and flipping from corner to corner on the large rug to the beat of several drummers. Emhyr stood sipping the warmed wine under the snout of his wooden mask, enthralled by the performance. Soon Emhyr’s mug ran dry and Geralt ordered it refilled.

Emhyr swayed every so slightly with the drum’s beat after the second mug. All the while Geralt stood back, watching, inconspicuously guarding. The drums beat faster, the woman flipping over, twisting in the air, landing with a deep bow. And Emhyr clapped, along with everyone else watching. Geralt allowed himself to feel the pleasure mixing in his gut for a moment again, Emhyr was enjoying himself, like a commoner, it was a sight to behold. Geralt stepped forward then letting his words ghost over the emperors ear again.

“It’s time to go Little Wolf.”

The emperor followed him calmly on the way back to the palace. Trustingly. No fear in his heartbeat this time. Back through the gilded gates, up the main steps and down the many guarded halls. Once Geralt had his Little Wolf back in his office he watched at Emhyr put the quill neatly on top his desk, unwrapping it with care. 

“Did you enjoy being a commoner tonight Little Wolf?” Geralt had sprawled himself in his usual spot on the side couch, watching Emhyr.

“I…” Emhyr turned to face Geralt, anger flooding his body. “I am not a commoner witcher,” Emhyr pulled the wolf mask of roughly, dropping it on his desk next the pile of his clothes and the leather bag. “You know that.”

Geralt sighed heavily with disappointment, “Wrong answer Little Wolf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I refuse to apologize for the cliffhanger. It was just the only way to keep this chapter from smashing headlong into the next one. Emhyr Probably should not have taken that mask off.


	8. Ch 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Codlaéd gaedeen, _Ker'zaer_.”  
> Emhyr ground his teeth together. _Bloede arse! How could I possibly sleep well after how you treated me tonight?!_ Emhyr seethed in his head. Shame washed over him as he was reminded of their earlier actions. Of how he had actually enjoyed acting like a commoner for once. Of how he’d been used like one too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand after much ado the smut has arrived!
> 
>  **There are some thoughts in Emhyr's head in this chapter that some might find triggering for dubcon/noncon** rest assured there is no actual dub or non con in this chapter. I just wanted to make sure that there was some warning so everyone could read at their own comfort level. Emhyr is an intelligent man and he knows what he is getting himself into, but his subspace is a little intense sometimes.
> 
> Forewarnings aside enjoy some smut. No seriously. Trust kink,and a wee bit of humiliation smut. With a side of aftercare.

“Wrong answer Little Wolf.”

The witcher was looking at Emhyr with obvious disappointment in those strange eyes of his.  _ What was he supposed to do? Just go along with this charade that he was no better than a common Nilfgaardian citizen?  _ Unthinkable.

“You were doing so well,” the witcher’s flat voice drew Emhyr’s attention again. “Did you have permission to take off the mask, Little Wolf?”

Emhyr stood staring at the witcher across from him.  _ Permission?  _ He opened his mouth to retort, but then thought better of it, they were not done playing this game yet, Emhyr closed his mouth unceremoniously. The witcher had stood from the couch and began removing his sword belt.

“Do you want me to leave? Are we done with this?” the witcher asked harshly.

“No,” the words escaped Emhyr before he could even comprehend his answer.

“Then I will only repeat myself once and you will answer me. Did. You. Have. Permission?” The witcher’s voice was rough, and had gotten noticeably louder, but he didn’t seem angry. Emhyr wasn’t afraid of him.

“I,” Emhyr cleared his throat, thinking of his answer carefully, “I did not have permission, no.”

“There is a price for doing things without my approval Little Wolf,” The witcher had leaned his swords up against the couch, and was calmly pulling his shirt over his head. “You were in such a hurry to be out of that mask and those clothes a moment ago. Take them off, I want you naked for your punishment.” Emhyr couldn’t help but stare at the impressive amount of scars that littered the man’s chest and crawled down his arms. Even the side of his neck had was adorned with a vicious-looking pearly white bite. He came back to his senses when he noticed the witcher was undoing the buckle on his belt.

Emhyr’s heart thundered in his ears. Surely the witcher wouldn’t demand so such a high price as a punishment for something so minor? It had only been a mask. Yet the man continued to undress in front of him.  _“Don’t make me repeat myself.” _ Emhyr heard the words in his head as clearly as if the witcher had said them out loud in front of him. Emhyr felt like his breathing was getting away from him as he fumbled again to loosen the knots holding the pheasant armor together.  _ Please, please don’t make me do this,  _ he pleaded in his mind, unwilling to beg the witcher himself. Every nerve in his body felt overworked and raw, the clothing grating at his skin as he removed it piece by piece, stuffing it back into the leather satchel as he went. Keeping his gaze low Emhyr avoided the witcher’s pale body, now completely nude, leaning back on the couch.

When he was done Emhyr stood facing the desk, ashamed to face the witcher, head bowed to the floor. His half-hard cock twitched traitorously, knowing the witcher was nearby in all his naked glory, Emhyr could feel his eyes roaming over his body. He wasn’t ready for this, his breath hitched in his throat at the thought of the witcher taking him. Emhyr had taken a man or two in his time, when it suited him. But never had he himself allowed another to claim him, such a thing was inconceivable as Emperor of Nilfgaard. And yet it seemed the witcher would. It would hurt, Emhyr wasn’t ready for this, he knew there wasn’t even any oil in his office. His breath caught in his throat again.

“…ittle Wolf,” the witcher’s voice broke into Emhyr’s tortured thoughts. Calmer, softer, not as flat as it was before. “Little Wolf,” the witcher called again, not at all angry at having to repeat himself.

Emhyr braced himself with a deep breath and turned toward the witcher.

Gods, Emhyr was beautiful like this. Naked, vulnerable, and scared. Cock half hard with arousal, body fighting to breath through his fear. It only further heightened Geralt’s own desire in the moment. This was supposed to be a punishment for Emhyr but Geralt’s aching cock was a stern reminder to himself how much he would enjoy it. He could hear Emhyr’s heart beating in his chest like a frightened bird in a cage, his breathing stuttering in his lungs, and wondered what was going on in that magnificent mind. No matter. Emhyr had earned this punishment.

“Little Wolf,” Geralt called softly a third time, “come here.” Geralt sat up straight on the couch, spreading his legs much the same way he remembered Emhyr having done in the courtyard of the Vizima Palace. “On your knees, here in front of me. No touching me, or yourself. This is your punishment because you did not ask for permission.”

Emhyr approached him on wobbly legs. Unable to stop himself and unsure if he even wanted to Geralt took his cock in a loose grip, sliding his hand up and down, teasing himself to the sight. Dropping a pillow on the polished wooden floor in between his legs Geralt allowed the corner of his mouth to turn up as he ordered Emhyr around.

“Kneel,” Geralt lowered his voice, made it rougher, deeper, and watched as Emhyr’s own cock jerked slightly at the sound. “I want you to watch.” Emhyr tried to fold his hands in his lap to cover his arousal in shame, and Geralt knocked the emperor’s hands away using only his right foot. “No. It’s mine to see.”

Geralt stroked himself, closing his fist around his cock. Ensuring Emhyr had a good view as he reached the top and rolled his thumb over the head, gathering the wetness there to spread it around and slick his way. Glorying in the way Emhyr’s cock twitched and grew where it lay untouched. Moving deliberately with a firm hand Geralt teased himself before Emhyr’s eyes. His other hand roamed over his hard abs up his pecs, sparsely covered in hair, to rub at his flat pale nipples. Geralt moaned quietly and thrust his hips forward into his hand, bringing himself closer to Emhyr’s body below him. Emhyr gasped at the action making Geralt’s groin ache, deep down behind his balls. Gods above he wanted to cum so badly. Wanted to cover Emhyr and claim him. Make his Little Wolf smell like him. 

Pace increasing, Geralt fisted his cock furiously, letting his mouth fall open and staring directly into Emhyr’s wide eyes. He focused on the redness of Emhyr’s skin as the blush crept down his face, onto his chest. The rapidness of his breathing, his pounding heart as Emhyr realized what was about to happen, and felt powerless to stop it. Chose to let Geralt do this to him. Accepted his punishment.

Emhyr knelt unmoving at the witcher’s feet frozen in place unable to look away. Cock throbbing, Emhyr ached for it to be touched, even though the witcher had forbidden him from touching himself. He wanted to cry, wanted to beg for relief. But he would do neither. Secretly, buried deep inside his mind Emhyr wished the witcher would touch his cock for him, remove the burden from his hands. He’d been afraid the witcher would demand more before, but he could almost welcome such a thing right now, if it brought him release. Almost. Emhyr shuddered at the thought. He felt so weak and exposed just thinking that.

Hot streaks of cum startled Emhyr when they stuck his chest. Landing wetly across it in long ropes. He couldn’t stop the trembling that shook him. His breath coming in short ragged gulps as he tried to hold himself together. Understanding crested and washed over him in a wave, this was his punishment- to be used. The witcher had shown him his place, used him for his own pleasure without a thought for Emhyr, because Emhyr hadn’t earned it. Being The Emperor of Nilfgaard wasn’t enough for Geralt. Emhyr had to be good. He had to ask. Tears leaked down his face at the realization that he had failed.

The red and black silk braies would feel smooth against Emhyr’s skin. Geralt watched Emhyr closely as he walked naked to the desk to retrieve them. Dressing himself would come in a bit. First he needed to see to his Little Wolf. Geralt scooped Emhyr up in his arms. Emhyr didn’t fight the action at all, didn’t breath a word. Carefully Geralt laid him out on the couch, moving slowly, keeping his voice low as he told Emhyr that he was going to clean him. He wiped away the cum from Emhyr’s chest and set the braies aside. Sitting naked on the floor, one leg tucked under him and the other knee propped up Geralt ran his thumb along Emhyr’s cheekbone, smoothing away the stray hairs and tears. Watching. Waiting. Until Emhyr stirred on his own.

“I’m sorry,” Emhyr’s words were hushed and his eyes still dilated.

“Do you know why I punished you?” Geralt kept his face blank, soft, accepting. He wanted to know what Emhyr thought, how Emhyr felt about what they had done.

“I did not have permission to take off the mask,” Emhyr said quietly.

Geralt nodded, “You took your punishment well.” Geralt continued to rub Emhyr’s cheekbone with his thumb, even though the tears were now dried and gone. “Now you’re forgiven.”

Emhyr drew a shaky breath, “I should ask you for what I want, yes?”

A small smile spread on Geralt’s lips unbidden, “Yes, that would please me Little Wolf.”

They stayed like that for some time. Geralt letting his fingers explore the rough shadow on Emhyr’s jaw, tucking the hair back behind his ear. Emhyr’s focus drifting under Geralt’s watchful eyes. When Geralt was sure Emhyr was coherent and not upset with what had occurred, he roused the emperor from the couch and directed him to get dressed again. Emhyr was unhappy that his silk braies were dirtied, Geralt however merely smirked and told him to take wear the rougher cotton ones.

“Maybe the scratchiness will remind you that being emperor doesn’t mean anything to me,” Geralt replied cockily as he slipped easily back into his armor, swords falling into place on his back effortlessly. He reached into the leather bag and fished out the braies for Emhyr.

“Petulant arse,” Emhyr snapped back, grabbing the white cotton braies from Geralt’s hand.

A true laugh rumbled out of Geralt. He plopped into Emhyr’s chair behind the desk and raised an eyebrow as he watched the emperor dress once again, only slightly less flustered than when he’d been ordered to strip. Unwrapping the parrot feather quill Geralt neatly arranged both it and the red ink on Emhyr’s desk while the emperor finished dressing.

Chain of office seated back against his chest Emhyr faced Geralt again and crossed his arms.

“Well,” Emhyr huffed out having regained much of his composure with the clothing of his office, “are you satisfied with yourself now witcher?”

One eyebrow crept up Geralt’s face again, “Are you?”

Emhyr carried on ignoring Geralt’s parry, “Shall I call the Impera back?”

“Of course, they should always be guarding you when I am not.” Geralt smiled wickedly in Emhyr’s chair before rolling up to standing, and striding over to grab Emhyr’s dirty silk braies, stuffing them in the leather bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “I do like to sleep sometimes, or meditate.”

The Impera returned to Emhyr simply by him pulling a decorative gold rope in the far corner of his office. Normally it served to summon Mererid, but he’d long since gone to bed. Emhyr led the way down the hall, the witcher and Impera following at a respectable distance. Emhyr tried his best to walk normally but the cotton braies itched and his cock, though no longer fully hard, still ached for relief.

As Emhyr turned to walk through the double doors to his rooms the witcher called out to him none to quietly. Voice lilting, almost as if the witcher were cooing at him.

“Codlaéd gaedeen,  _ Ker'zaer. _ ”

Emhyr ground his teeth together.  _Bloede arse! How could I possibly sleep well after how you treated me tonight?! _ Emhyr seethed in his head. Shame washed over him as he was reminded of their earlier actions. Of how he had actually enjoyed acting like a commoner for once. Of how he’d been used like one too. 

Outwardly Emhyr kept his head snapped directly forward and marched on, ignoring the witcher as he walked away. Sleep was not easy that night. The braies scratched and rode up in uncomfortable ways. Emhyr’s dreams were fitful and disturbing he was sure, yet when he woke he couldn’t recall them at all.

Letting out a long drawn out sigh Emhyr rose in the morning to dress. Grateful to be rid of those horrible cotton braies. He instructed the body servant to ensure they were washed and returned directly to his chambers though. Great Sun only knew why.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Emhyr has finally started to show Geralt aka mostly "the witcher" in his mind unless he slips up that he trusts him enough to do this thing, so things will proceed to get kinky.


	9. Ch 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was true, Geralt had found Nilfgaard was growing on him. Well the market was, and his Little Wolf. Being around Ciri was a wonderful addition to his semi-retirement too. Playing with Emhyr was keeping the itch to go out and find a contract at a surprising distance. He wasn’t examining that too closely though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey ho, just a little masturbation and set up-oh!
> 
> Enjoy

Face pressed against the silk the scent was so strong it made his cock throb where it was trapped between his forearm and the bed. Fingers scissoring open his aching rim, Geralt’s cock leaked onto the sheets with every breath of Emhyr’s smell he took. It was intoxicating the way it mingled with the salty tang of his own release. Muffled noises slipped from Geralt’s open mouth, two fingers unerringly finding their way to his prostate and nimbly massaging it. Pleasure rocked through his body, hips jerking forward, legs closed tightly around his hand as he rode his fingers to completion. Vision fading to sparkles, Geralt held his breath in pure rapture, one hand still fisted in Emhyr’s dirty braies.

The tender ache was worth it later when Ciri sat across from Geralt in the library. He was smiling softly to himself as she complained to him and no one else in particular.

“Nilfgaardian is too sharp, it’s too easy to insult someone without trying,” she whined.

“They liked to be able to point a blade at another person over dinner without causing a scene,” Geralt reasoned.

“But real steel is so much more fun,” Ciri huffed, flopping her arms up in the air and then crossing them to lay her head on them and look at Geralt sideways. The language book laid open on the table between them.

“Not always the best answer though,” he countered pointing his finger at her with a mock stern look. “You have to learn to play the game by their rules. Sometimes a well placed threat can be just as fun as playing with real steel.” He grinned at the thought of playing with Emhyr tonight.

“Well you’re rather cheerful about Nilfgaard all of a sudden,” Ciri rolled her eyes and Geralt burst out laughing.

It was true, Geralt had found Nilfgaard was growing on him. Well, the market was, and his Little Wolf. Being around Ciri was a wonderful addition to his semi-retirement too. Playing with Emhyr was keeping the itch to go out and find a contract at a surprising distance. He wasn’t examining that too closely though. 

“I have something I want you to tell Emhyr at dinner tonight,” Geralt announced suddenly.

“Can’t you tell him yourself?” Ciri sighed, exasperated as she slumped back into her chair, picking her book back up.

“I won’t be there,” Geralt looked her in the eye, “I have errands to run.”

“Oohkay-”

“Tell him I said: ‘Essea sori aen lopaen aevon'maal. Es gan belean'graec va doan. Thu twe tatn'ea.’ But make sure you tell him in Nilfgaardian.” Geralt was almost grinning.

Ciri looked at him like he had been hit with Axii, “Ooohkay,” she said stretching it out even farther than before. “What kind of games are you playing with him now? Wait-” she interrupted herself immediately holding up her hand, “-I do not want to know.”

“I told you, sometimes words are as much fun as swords Ciri.”

People wove in and out of the carts in the market, burlap bags and baskets in hand. Geralt had only his ever present swords and his leather bag slung over his shoulder. Everything he needed, he had acquired and tucked safely inside, for later tonight. He enjoyed the buzz of the crowd and the looks from the people as he wound his way back out of the market and toward the palace gates. Nilfgaardians were a breed of their own, their looks held much more awe and much less fear and detestation than Northerners did. Down here Geralt was an oddity even more than in the North, but he was a precious oddity. A unicorn among men. He laughed out loud at the the thought. Gods, if Nilfgaardians knew what he knew about unicorns! They would probably pass out if they met a living one. Still it was almost comfortable to not worry about a random pitchfork or getting spit on.

Inside the palace gates Geralt made his way through the gardens and paths up to Emhyr’s private study. The guards let him in without a word and he set his bag at his feet, leaned his swords against the end of the couch and retrieved his latest book from the leather pack.  _ Noble Houses of True Nilfgaard, and Their Heraldic Art _ \- A bit dry sure but good knowledge to have in this part of the world. Geralt couldn’t help but cringe at that idea that any being not from Nilfgaard proper, whether under the banner of the Nilfgaardian Sun or not, was not a  _ true _ Nilfgaardian on the eyes of the Empire. Why conquer so ruthlessly if you couldn’t even bring yourselves to claim the populaces as your own? _What is Emhyr’s take on this?_ Geralt wondered.

He read on in comfort. Waiting patiently for Emhyr to arrive in his office insulted by his lack of presence at dinner. It should only be about an hour more. The spiced apple partridge partridge kabobs he had eaten in the market were filling. Not as delicious as whatever Emhyr and Ciri were eating now certainly but it would be worth it to land such a perfect spar.

There as no Common spoken at dinner. There was no  _ need _ for it. Not that there was ever a need for it, the witcher spoke Nilfgaardian perfectly fine, but Emhyr encouraged Cirilla to speak it with him as a courtesy. Since he hadn’t deigned them with his presence though, the entire evening’s conversation had been conducted in Nilfgaardian, as was their previous custom, before the witcher had arrived at the palace, to help her practice her accent.

Emhyr would not admit to himself that he  _ missed _ it. Missed the witcher’s voice. It seemed like his daughter had a good day. They had spent time in the library together again and sword practice. Emhyr wasn’t jealous. Asking Cirilla what type of errand was more important than their family dinner was completely off limits as well. He would not drag her into this, unlike that arse.

The doors to his private office parted before him and Emhyr strode in prepared to entomb himself in a mountain of paperwork. The only available outlet for his frustrations. Well not the only available outlet, but the only one he considered appropriate. Rounding the desk Emhyr caught sight of the witcher sitting on his office couch.

“What are you doing here you bloede piemellikker?” Emhyr glared viciously, telegraphing all his hurt into his words. 

One gray white eyebrow raised at him and the witcher ignored his words entirely as if they had never been said. “Did you sleep well last night Emperor?” His face stayed smooth as the surface of a lake. Calm and unreadable. Utterly infuriating. 

Emhyr took his seat, “I slept fine, Witcher.” He dug into his paperwork. Automatically his hand grabbed the quill from his desk an dipped it in the blank ink to sign a warrant. Touching it to the parchment Emhyr paused to stare at it, the incredibly red feather shining bright in the lamplight. Why had he picked that one? Both quills had sat next to each other in his desk, he could have easily used his regular one. 

The smooth barrel of the quill felt good in his hand and Emhyr decided to let it go. It was a gentle reminder of the carefree moments he’d had among the crowd the night before. 

Before—well before everything else last night. Emhyr’s skin still prickled at the thought of the rest of the night. Of how much he wanted to touch himself last night in his bed. Of course he didn’t, he couldn’t stop the running thoughts of the witcher in his head and he would not allow such imagery to be the backdrop to his pleasure.

The pile of work must have overtaken him because it seemed like only moments later Mererid was sternly delivering tea for two. Giving Emhyr his best bow and going on his way. Without really thinking about his intentions Emhyr sent the Impera away for the night and began to pour the lavender lemon concoction into the gilded cups.

Geralt watched as Emhyr sent the Impera away and stifled an internal chuckle. His Little Wolf was so predictable. He came to sit across the antique desk from Emhyr and took a polite sip of his tea.

“Well, how did you really sleep last night Little Wolf?” Geralt asked again very conversationally. “You seem very tense this evening.”

Emhyr just stared at him for a moment, clearly shaken by the use of his new name.

“I-” Emhyr paused and seemed to be gathering his thoughts, “I did not sleep as well as I have been,” he admitted and looked down at his desk.

“Was something bothering you?”

“No.” Emhyr’s response was reflexive.

“Really? I thought you trusted me, but you won't tell me what was keeping you awake,” Geralt let out an exaggerated sigh. “Let’s try this again. Little Wolf, tell me why you didn’t sleep as well last night,” Geralt ordered. A stern edge slipped into his voice though he kept it low.

Emhyr reached up to his neck and took his chain of office in his hands, “May I take this off first, witcher?”

“Of course, thank you for asking.”

Lifting it over his head Emhyr set the heavy gold chain off to the side on his desk and covered his face with his hands, “I was too aroused.”

Geralt’s cock gave a jump at the admission, Gods he knew the feeling. Emhyr’s clear shame over it was a thing of beauty in and of itself though. “Did you touch yourself?”

“What?! No of course not!” Emhyr jolted up to look him in the eye with disdain.

“It was just a question,” Geralt drank his tea again, small polite sips, “relax. It’s normal you know? I did, last night,” Geralt watched as Emhyr’s turned from pink to sunset red with his words. “I touched myself until I filthied those nice linen sheets of yours, just like I did your chest.” He watched Emhyr struggle with the image in his head, listened to his pulse quicken at the thought.

“I do not have time for such frivolities, witcher,” Emhyr replied, but his voice came out much breathier this time. The image doing its work.

“I think, Little Wolf, that you are wound far too tight. When was the last time you gave yourself some relief?” Geralt prodded.

Emhyr took his time, thinking about his answer, before replying, “I do not know, months maybe?”

“Too long,” Geralt frowned at his tea and drained it. He stood and went to get his leather bag.

Emhyr was watching him half a cup of tea left. Face pinked by his blush but distracted enough by Geralt’s movements that his embarrassment was starting to fade.

“Finish your tea Little Wolf.”

Obediently Emhyr began to sipping his tea while he watched Geralt pull an undyed cotton sheet out of his bag. He spread it out in the middle of the floor, pausing to lock the door as he went by it. A pillow from the couch was placed at one end of the sheet, each corner was held down with something heavy from around the room—the lead paperweight from Emhyr’s desk, Geralt’s giant Nilfgaardian heraldry tome, a decorative brass urn, and a small wooden chest from Emhyr’s cabinet that stored various seals.

Emhyr stared enthralled as the witcher moved about the room, choosing items as if he owned the place. Anyone else would be terrified to touch his belongings. He went to take another sip of tea and realized his cup was empty. Damn the Sun, he’d blindly followed the witcher’s command again. Setting the cup down a little too loud, he watched perplexed as the witcher removed the remaining items from the bag. 

A decent sized bottle of oil with a skinny neck and a corked top. Three glass jars filled with beeswax, a wick poking from the top of each. One was sunflower yellow—almost gold—another inky black, the third and final was dark burgundy.  _ At least the witcher has good taste in color, _ Emhyr mused to himself. The candles were placed along the far side of the sheet just past its edge and the witcher snapped his fingers. The wicks blinked to life and Emhyr narrowed his gaze at them, for a moment he had almost forgotten the vatt'ghern wasn’t  _ quite _ human. He had just been reminded.

The witcher began to disrobe, unbuckling his armor and laying it over the arm of the couch, his tunic sliding easily over his head. Again Emhyr was mesmerized by the patchwork of scars that covered his bare skin. Those were clearly whip marks along along his back, next to scars left by claws and other things. Emhyr’s gut twisted. Somewhere in his mind he knew he had a hand in those marks in particular. Foltest’s death was his scheming and it had left a permanent record on the witcher’s skin. Yet he wore it like a badge of honor.

The witcher sat down on the couch in his leather pants ans boots, hands behind his head and looked Emhyr in the eyes; and Emhyr realized he had been caught staring, blatantly.

“Take off your clothes Little Wolf,” Great Sun his voice was always so even it drove Emhyr crazy, “and lay down on the sheet. Head on the pillow. You need to learn to relax.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know where this is going. Let me know what you think!
> 
> ~BBean


	10. Ch 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Emperor was tightly wound and Geralt had every intention of unspooling him tonight. Unwinding him thread by thread. Watching Emhyr come undone under his careful guidance, and no one’s touch but his own hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Geralt, you didn't quite think he'd fall this far this hard this fast did you? Well witcher you played your game a little too well there.

Emhyr had been so curious watching him get ready. It pleased Geralt no end to have Emhyr’s attention on him, and he couldn’t wait to see how Emhyr would react to what he had planned. The Emperor was tightly wound and Geralt had every intention of unspooling him tonight. Unwinding him thread by thread. Watching Emhyr come undone under his careful guidance, and no one’s touch but his own hand. He knew Emhyr was watching him undress and he allowed himself a few moments to enjoy it before sitting and catching Emhyr’s eye. He directed his Little Wolf to undress and relaxed to watch the show.

Emhyr was less nervous and more composed than yesterday about shedding his clothing in front of Geralt. But then Geralt wasn’t punishing him today. He hoped he wouldn’t have to. He let his eyes rake over the Emperor’s naked body, pale olive skin still unmarked, cock soft with embarrassment hanging between his thighs. Geralt wanted to touch it, but not yet, that wasn’t part of his plan. He wanted his Little Wolf to be begging for it before he gave him that. He had to earn it and he was so far away still, no matter how much Geralt wanted it for his own greedy reasons. This game wasn’t about him.

Geralt got up and sat on his knees by the candles, so similar to how he did when he meditated. He picked up the oil and began warming the glass bottle over one of the wicks. He wished he could have brought in a bowl and water to heat it up in, but the guards might have raised an eyebrow at even the Emperor’s pet witcher bringing water into Emhyr’s office. He rolled the bottle between his hands to keep the glass from overheating, he only wanted the oil warm, not hot. Emhyr stood stiffly naked in front of him, looking unsure of how to get down on the floor.

“Lay down on the sheet face up,” Geralt ordered calmly and this time Emhyr simply obeyed. “Close your eyes and tell me why you didn’t touch yourself last night.” Emhyr’s fell closed immediately, his breath was uneven and jerky. Geralt waited patiently, uncorking the vial of warm oil and holding it suspended over Emhyr’s chest.

Emhyr didn’t want to talk about this. Why did the witcher insist on pushing him? Wasn’t it his own business if he chose to satisfy himself or not?

“There are always people watching me, you know this,” he forced out. That was partly true at least.

“Are you worried your Impera might see you? Surely your giant bed has a canopy, pull the curtain,” Geralt replied nonchalantly as he dribbled warm oil across Emhyr’s chest. The startled breath Emhyr sucked in when it landed on him was perfect. 

Emhyr struggled to catch his breath as the warm oil rolled over his skin touching him in a twisted reminder of Geralt’s punishment the previous night. “They-”  _ Stront! _ Geralt’s hand was chasing the oil, spreading it over his chest, warm skin on his, “-They would still hear me. They would know what, what I was doing alone.” And that was part of it wasn’t it? That he was alone. Emhyr new his face was burning red, felt the heat of it creeping down his neck.

“Touching yourself is nothing to be ashamed of,” Geralt let the warm oil trail down over Emhyr’s thighs, first one, then the other, and Emhyr’s cock took notice of it. He groaned, immediately balling his fists and biting his lip to stifle anymore unwanted sounds. “Tell me how you like to touch yourself.”

Emhyr’s teeth let go of his lip to speak and another groan slipped free.  _The witcher wanted him to talk about this? Now? _ “Just like any other man, witcher.”  _That was what he wanted to hear wasn’t it, that Emhyr wasn’t special? _ “I don’t want to talk about this,” Emhyr unclenched and clenched his fists at his side.

“I want you to talk about it though,” Geralt ran his hands up Emhyr’s thighs spreading the oil evenly, “Tell me.” Emhyr’s cock was filling up, and he wasn’t sure if it was being told to talk about how he pleased himself or if it was from Geralt’s hands expertly massaging his thighs.

“I wrap my hand around my cock and stroke it, is that what you want to hear?” It was so basic, just like any man, exactly like he had said, what did the witcher expect?

“Which hand?”

_ What?  _ “My- my quill hand, why does it matter- oh!” Warm oil was dripping onto his cock and it throbbed with pleasure.

“Take it in your hand, show me what you like,” Geralt’s hands were gone from him and he was left breathless. The oil was running down the sides of his cock, between his legs, into the crease of his arse. He wanted to hide, but he couldn’t, Geralt was watching. So instead he followed his orders and let his hand circle his cock. It felt both incredibly good, and incredibly embarrassing at the same time. It was slippery as it slid through his fingers mostly stiff, but tempered by his shame. “Do you like the way your callouses feel against it?” Geralt’s questioned startled him, further reminded him he was not alone. Emhyr could only nod in response, not trusting his voice.

“So if I were to join you in your chambers and you weren’t alone would it be okay to pleasure yourself then?” Geralt grinned to himself as Emhyr’s eyes few open to stare at him, “Your Impera would know you weren’t alone then.”

“NO.”

“Little Wolf, then what really kept you from touching yourself last night?” Geralt asked still grinning. “Close your eyes and tell me.” Geralt picked up the sunflower gold candle, a puddle of melted wax had formed in the top and the glass was hot to the touch. It felt cooler in his hand the longer he held it; he blew out the wick.

Emhyr closed his eyes and braced for Geralt’s anger, “I was angry with you,” he drew a deep breath, “I didn’t want to pleasure myself to the thought of you and you wouldn’t get out of my head.”

“But you do want pleasure from me, along with your punishments,” Geralt stated knowing it was fact. He tipped the candle and let the smallest stream of golden wax run out over Emhyr’s chest. Watching fascinated as gold bloomed out over the Emperor’s light olive skin. The skin at the edge of the wax turning red. Emhyr hissed at the unexpected searing heat and pain. Drawing deep quick breaths, a tear slid out of the corner of one of his tightly shut eyes.

“Yes I do.” It hurt to admit. Worse than the burning heat on his chest. Emhyr shuddered under the pain. Forcing himself to keep breathing through it. The fist at his side fell open uselessly.

“Don’t stop touching yourself, take pleasure from me with your pain.”

Great Sun Geralt’s words cut deep. He did want this. So badly. Emhyr let his hand start to slide back over his wilting cock. It felt good, took his mind away from his chest. The pain there was subsiding.

“You are beautiful like this,” Geralt’s voice as softer now. Emhyr let his mind bath in it as he rolled his wrist, working his hand around his cock quickly. Another splash of pain spread over the other side of his chest, and he sucked in air roughly. Tried to focus on the pleasure of his hand, the callous from his quill bumping into the sensitive skin just under the head of his cock. “Stroking yourself for me. Enjoying it.” 

Geralt’s words rang true in Emhyr’s ears. He was enjoying it, aroused by the idea Geralt was watching him. Aroused by the idea that Geralt  _ wanted _ to watch him. Burning pain dribbled down the middle of his abdomen, taking away his breath. The hand at Emhyr’s side twitched fingers curling reflexively with the pain. It was so hot, it had to be burning him. The thought was terrifying over the pain and euphoria. He opened his eyes and stared into Geralt’s catlike gaze as he blew out the wick of the black candle. They would  _ kill _ him for this. The thought stabbed Emhyr in the gut killing all the pleasure coiled there. Cum spilled onto his stomach, cool in comparison to his heated skin, as Geralt dripped black wax down his thigh. Staring into the eyes of a dead man walking, a sob tore from Emhyr’s throat, and he choked up.

His Little Wolf looked up at him with full on terror in his wet eyes and Geralt had to touch him. He reached out with his hand to cup Emhyr’s face.

“Shhh. It’s alright,” Geralt leaned over him to place a kiss in the middle of Emhyr’s forehead.

“No.” Emhyr said firmly, he was shaking but he hadn’t said his world, “No, it’s not. It will never be alright.”

Geralt blew out the last candle and moved them all out of the way, stretching out next to Emhyr, sliding his arm under Emhyr’s neck.

“Little Wolf you are not in control here, and I say everything will be alright. You are safe,” Geralt reminded him softly, speaking low into Emhyr’s ear, letting his breath tease over it.

“But-” Emhyr sobbed, “but you are not.” Emhyr turned his head into Geralt shamelessly seeking out contact.

“You are not responsible for me. I know what I am doing.”

“You don’t understand! This will leave a mark on me, and when it is seen…” Emhyr stopped talking, unable to bring himself to finish the sentence.

“Little Wolf, if I choose to give you a mark it’s only for me and you to see,” Geralt said softly “no one else.” He understood why Emhyr was upset suddenly now, but he’d planned for this, Emhyr had nothing to worry about.

“How-”

“I would never let anyone else see you like this, this vulnerable, would I?” Geralt asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Emhyr admitted.

“That’s why you’re scared. Trust me, and I will take care of you. Now and until these marks are gone,” Emhyr whimpered as Geralt began to peel a piece of wax off of his chest. “Shhh,” Geralt hushed him. Piece by piece Geralt peeled back the wax to reveal blotchy red marks. Perfectly imitations of the lines and splashes he’d dribbled onto Emhyr. Slowly with Emhyr’s breathing evened out, his heartbeat regained its steady patter, and Geralt pulled himself up from the the sheet. Using the corner he wiped Emhyr mostly clean of his own cum.

“Can you dress for me?” Geralt asked.

“Yes,” Emhyr replied but Geralt noted his voice still sounded shaky and he made no move to get up from the floor.

Clearing the weighted items from the sheet corners and setting the candles on Emhyr’s desk, Geralt bent down to scoop Emhyr up. Arms wrapped willingly around his neck and he carried Emhyr to the couch, then brought him his clothes.

“Dress for me and walk with me to your rooms,” Geralt started to help Emhyr don his tunic, “you will tell the Impera and your room servants that they are not needed tonight, I will be keeping watch over you.” Emhyr looked up at him in shock. “I said I would take care of you until the marks I give you fade. I meant it. Every time, Emhyr.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A whole bathtub of aftercare coming up next because Geralt almost broke his Little Wolf.


	11. Ch 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Relax, lean back against me and let me take care of you,” Geralt’s kept his voice low, but there was a soft lilting quality underneath it. He felt as much as heard Emhyr let out a shuddering breath and melt into him. Tipping his head back against Geralt, Emhyr closed his eyes, and seemed to focus on his breathing. It became more regular, matching up to his heart beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! This is what happens when you take one too many writing projects at once _looks at the other works-in-progress_.
> 
> The witcher is back to provide some **much needed** aftercare. He took on more than he planned with Emhyr and it almost backfired.

By the time Geralt followed Emhyr into the grand rooms that made up his suite Emhyr sounded slightly more composed. He was able to send the Impera away, and only garnered a few hesitant looks, before barking at them to follow orders or risk the penalty for insubordination. Clearly they had noticed his less than usual authoritative state, but still felt bound not to question it. Once they were all gone Geralt’s hand settled low on Emhyr’s back, guiding Emhyr gently toward the giant bath.

Slowly, piece by piece, Geralt stripped Emhyr of his clothes again. Keeping every touch soft, barely letting his fingers graze Emhyr’s skin. Geralt was quick taking his own clothes off, efficient, not wanting to leave Emhyr standing on his own for too long. Strong arm around Emhyr’s waist, hand splayed over the red marks left by the wax on his abdomen, Geralt slowly walked Emhyr down the baths steps into the warm water. Arranging himself on an underwater bench at the edge, Geralt pulled Emhyr beck against him. Back to chest, a full body contact, Geralt rested his chin on Emhyr’s shoulder.

“Relax, lean back against me and let me take care of you,” Geralt’s kept his voice low, but there was a soft lilting quality underneath it. He felt as much as heard Emhyr let out a shuddering breath and melt into him. Tipping his head back against Geralt, Emhyr closed his eyes, and seemed to focus on his breathing. It became more regular, matching up to his heart beat.

Never letting go of Emhyr’s waist Geralt used his other hand to cup water and bring it up to the top of his Little Wolf’s chest. Pouring it there. Letting it wash away the evening. He took soap and cloth from one of the many trays that lined the edge of the bath, running it over Emhyr’s chest, dipping it under the water to get the remaining oil and wax there. Geralt was careful not to rub roughly over the red blotches that marked Emhyr’s chest and abdomen. They looked beautiful and he wondered how long they would stay. How many days would he get to treat his little wolf to this.

Emhyr had turned his into the side of Geralt’s neck and Geralt could feel wetness sliding down his skin there. Not from the bath. Emhyr was silently crying into his skin. The distress of earlier wasn’t present though so Geralt let him continue, washing his skin throughout it all. Arms, shoulders, and neck. Dragging the cloth under the water and running it over Emhyr’s thighs, up between his legs, ever gently over his cock and balls. Not lingering, nothing sexual in his touch, just caring and cleaning. Emhyr’s breath hitched at the intimate touch but he didn’t move away, letting his legs fall slightly more open to allow Geralt to work. When he was done Geralt cupped his hand again and poured water over every part of Emhyr, washing the suds away, leaving only pure clean skin behind. They stayed for quite a while more, until Emhyr’s breath was deep, steady, and solid in his chest, his silent tears having stopped some time ago, before Geralt roused him.

“Come on, let’s get you dry and into bed,” Geralt urged Emhyr to stand and he did. Soft and plaint to Geralt’s suggestions. Geralt dried himself and Emhyr both with a large fluffy towel and then scooped up his armor and Emhyr’s chain of office. “Lead the way.” Following close behind, Geralt allowed Emhyr to lead him to the bedroom. He placed Emhyr’s chain of office on the black velvet that looked as if it were made just for it, and hung his swords on the post of the bed within easy reach. His Little Wolf was still standing naked beside the bed looking a little lost. Geralt went the Emhyr’s armoire and took out a set of night clothes, a simple soft night tunic and braies. He sat on the edge of the bed and beckoned Emhyr to him. With the same efficiency he used on himself Geralt dressed Emhyr for bed, then stood and put his own braies back on. He slid easily into the bed and lifted the covers. Holding them open in invitation he looked at Emhyr, “Come to bed Little Wolf. I’ll sleep with you and keep you safe, no more.”

The bed looked so inviting and Emhyr felt so so exhausted. Wary deep in his bones in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. Since he’d lost Cirilla at least. Geralt looked inviting. Not in a sexual way, just in a way that offered comfort. Comfort Emhyr probably didn’t deserve, but that wanted. Emhyr wanted so bad to just crawl inside of the witcher’s arms, and take all of the comfort Geralt would give. His chest tingled where he knew the wax had left bright red stains on his skin in its wake, and he wanted Geralt to put his hand over it and soothe the ache. Finally his exhausted body won out over his running mind, and he followed the witcher into his bed.

His bed. Geralt was in his bed. He hadn’t been invited, but in a way he had. Emhyr had let him do so much to him, this was a minor thing. Any other person supposing they could take that liberty would be swinging from a gallows by morning but it was just that fear that had driven them to this point. The witcher had said that he would take care of Emhyr until his marks were gone. That he would never let anyone see them. He clearly knew the consequences, or maybe he actually cared? Knew that Emhyr would never want to be seen as that weak. He had said that he would never let anyone see Emhyr so vulnerable. _No, don’t fool yourself Emhyr._

The witcher’s arms were strong and warm, though. Circling around him, holding him tightly. Emhyr let himself relax, his back against the witcher’s chest, similar to the position he had so enjoyed in the tub. But he would not cry here. He had no more tears left for now. He felt—strangely—better for having cried so much. 

There was less fear there. Less fear that Geralt would be harmed for his actions, less fear that the Impera or Mererid would find out what he had allowed Geralt to do to him. Less fear that they would know how incredibly good it had felt in that moment. That utter sweet moment of release when he had lost himself on his stomach under the pain Geralt had given him. Emhyr drifted, calmed by the memory of it, by the heat of Geralt right behind him. Geralt had told Emhyr when he was afraid on the floor of his office that he was safe, and he had argued that he wasn’t concerned for his own safety, but maybe that wasn’t wholly true. Always everywhere there was a shadow around every corner. A threat to himself, to his empire, to his throne, to his family now that Cirilla was back. 

Yet right now at this moment he felt safe, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had told him he was safe and it was true. But he believed it now. Geralt would not let harm come to either of them, and he was proving it right now. Calloused hands wrapped around Emhyr’s middle, fingers lightly playing across those terrifying marks that told Emhyr who he really belonged to. One long exhale later Emhyr drifted off to sleep in the arms of his witcher.

  


**Author's Note:**

>  **Nilfgaardian translations:**  
>  Aen Visse Mawredd dymuno~ As Your Majesty wishes  
> Gach duine esse va vort eithrio an vatt'ghern~ All of you will go away except the witcher  
> Mé ver'langhen aen glúine~ I desire to kneel  
> Codlaéd gaedeen, Ker'zaer.~ Sleep well, Emperor.  
> Bloede Kusse!~ Bloody Cunt! (Nilfgaardian equivalent of Fucking Cunt)  
> bloede piemellikker~damn cocksucker (or fucking cocksucker depending on translation)  
> Essea sori aen lopaen aevon'maal. Es gan belean'graec va doan. Thu twe tatn'ea.~I am sorry to miss dinner. I have important things to do. You two enjoy.  
> Stront!~ Shit!
> 
> These are based on actual translations from the game were possible with Welsh, Irish, and Gaelic words subbed in where not as the game designers have said Nilfgaardian is mostly based on Welsh and Elsder Speech (which is Irish/gaelic language based) so bare with me!
> 
> Also talk to me! Kudos=love! Open to finding a beta reader for this one but I don't want to overwhelm the person beta'ing my other series fic, so if you are interested let me know.


End file.
